Neverwinter Nights 2: Shatterproof
by Aren-Kae
Summary: Ny'ren Vollen and Webb Mossfield must learn how to work together to bring an important artifact to Neverwinter... but with predjucies still high, it seems like it would take a miracle. Introducing a new group similar to NW Nine: the Nighthawks.
1. The Second Incursion

**Chapter 1 – The Second Incursion**

Three militiamen made their stand on the bridge crossing the Harborman River in a wedge formation around Georg. Webb Mossfield kept his back against the trunk of an oak tree and watched the gray dwarves die.

The three militia—Irine, Jorun, and Faelin—leapt over and past them, and with every leap another dwarf fell. But they never stopped, never faltered, swinging their warhammers from the hip, forcing their way foreword, over the bridge, trampling over the bodies of dead comrades.

And it wasn't only dueger who died.

A slight tickling in the back of his neck was his warning. He swung around, bringing his hammer to bear without thinking. A gray dwarf that must have swum across the river whirled, and the sword passed harmlessly over him, but Webb continued his spin, caving in the dwarve's skull like a melon.

After a quick look around to make sure no more were lying in wait, Webb rushed foreword to help the militia, conscious of the two dark shapes, too tall to be dwarves, wade through the river and make a beeline for the Farlong house. He caught sight of a long, golden braid, and knew that it was Bevil and Amie trying to warn their elven friend of the dangers outside. _We need them here,_ he whispered to himself, but realized that, sad truth that it was, Ny'ren Vollen would make a great asset in the battle and that Bevil and Amie were right in fetching her.

And then a group of three dueger followed them in. Webb stabbed angrily at an approaching dwarf with the dagger in his left hand. Blood spurted in a high arc from a severed artery.

He landed a solid kick to the exposed throat of one of his attackers, and had the satisfaction of hearing a distinctive pop as his neck broke. It fell to the ground, head bent at an awkward angle.

"Hold them off!" Georg yelled, much to reassure himself than to reassure his team, Webb thought. Not even five minutes in, and the bald-headed militia leader had sweat staining his nightshirt.

Webb was waiting for his next open shot when a massive shadow with red wrinkled skin and pointy horns all over rose up in front of him; intent on the dwarves, Webb hadn't seen him coming, whoever he was, but it wasn't a friend.

The creature growled, and drove his sword straight for Webb's neck.

Webb's knees buckled and he bent backwards like a drawn bow. The creature's fist grazed Webb's nose as the sword passed over the young man's upturned face and bit into the sturdy wooden sign behind him; the unexpected shock loosened his grip on the blade, and it remained stuck fast in the sign.

Before he could pull it back out, Webb flipped his wrist over and cut through his assailant's elbow.

The creature swayed, stunned.

"Demon-spawn," Webb hissed, and cut his throat. His head toppled to the ground, its' expression lost in the shadows.

The corpse fell against him. Webb pushed himself sideways out from under, looking for another target, and the dead creature slid to the ground.

Wyl and Ward were nowhere to be seen. They were either dead or fighting, he knew, but the idea didn't give him much hope. Either way, there was nothing left to do but fight his way towards them. As much as he hated his brothers, he didn't want to see them hurt.

Irine and Jorun fought one gray dwarf who had gone on a rampage, while Georg and Faelin busied themselves with the remaining three. Webb moved foreword to help them take down the dwarf. "This is for ruining my night, scum-packer," he muttered, gripping his hammer tightly.

But the sword was too heavy for him to hold steady. "What the fuck--?"

His knees had turned to cloth.

He glanced over at the creature's corpse. The other blade, the one Webb had completely forgot about, was stained bright red. Dripping.

"Oh."

He looked down. A huge diagonal gash opened his nightshirt across his abdomen, and his legs were soaked with blood—his blood. He sagged against the sign.

"Oh," he said again. "Oh, _crap_."


	2. Perfidy

**Chapter 2**

"_Time doesn't heal—it only leaves a scab."_ – **Master Jeremy Fuller**

**--**

The dining table at the Cow and Corset was, as Webb thought, the kind you could use as an operating table if you needed to.

It was cut from a single plank of ancient oak tree, a native hardwood that covered much of West Harbor's northern borders. Webb felt it was a table for life events, huge rambling discussions, and somehow also for the slaughter of a baby pig. He lay on it now, while Brother Merring hovered above him, worn and weary in his red and black monk robes. Dark red spots marred the pristine white of the center parting, and Webb knew without asking it was blood—some of it his, some of it the other wounded men and women in the Cow and Corset restaurant.

"Almost done," Merring said, face still grey and drained from the effort of exacting so many spells of healing over the wounded and dying. "Tuck in."

Enlightened Neverwinter court society would have tutted at the traditionalist view that the female of the household were valued for their cooking skills, but Webb was getting used to a subtler Harborman take on that he'd never noticed before. The whole village was a close, tight-knit fighting unit. Those who weren't on the front as obvious protectors—militia, for instance—were the essential part of the entire process, and many just happened to be female. Sometimes the women fought alongside men, as Ny did, and sometimes they didn't. But those who didn't still had a job to do—keeping their protectors fed and supplies, and the base or homestead defended. One couldn't operate without the other. And at this moment of crisis for the Mossfield family—for the whole village—the females had taken over and made sure the protectors were well-fed and rested. There was no weeping into dirty handkerchiefs and waiting by the door. There was just an efficient, robust operation that would still be there even if the entire world around them went into flames and the men taken in Kelevmor's cold grasp.

Wyl and Jorun were…

Wyl and his father were dead. Webb said it to himself every few minutes, because he looked at live people—his sister—and couldn't reconcile the two states.

Inu, his little thirteen-year-old sister, had said that their mother Glinda had screamed inconsolably for a full five minutes when she saw Jorun and Wyl's dead bodies, then had calmed down and regarded the world with a grave eyes and a contemplation more suited to the face of a wise old sage.

Glinda was eating some leftover pork over at the other table, seeming suddenly sober, exactly like an old sage than a flirty, raunchous adult. Something had changed in her. Ward sat beside her, an arm around her shoulders, the only one of the brothers who hadn't attained a single scrape or wound. He and Wyl had been a close pair, the town bullies, Webb had sometimes thought, even though he had occasionally joined in on the fun. Right now, his eyes were red and puffy and a blank expression was on his face—Webb imagined him as a burning man, being eaten alive by fire while watching his family descend into grief. A _man_, now. You couldn't go through the Nine Hells and come out as anything less.

Ward looked over at Webb, who still lie on the table, bleeding and mute. Slowly, imperceptibly, Ward nodded, acknowledging his brother's presence. Webb looked away, up to the ceiling, working against the tightness in his throat and the prickling in his eyes. But he couldn't win, and a hitched sob escaped from his throat.

_I can't do this, I can't do this… I can't _believe _it…_

Inu said that it was the elf that saved him. That she'd tried saving Jorun and Wyl, too. Right now, it seemed almost treason, thinking that an elf would have tried saving his father, putting her life on the line… Jorun had hated elves, had hated Ny and Daeghun Farlong ever since Webb could remember. It was insult to his memory, saying things like that. But Ny had tried, Inu had said, going on despite his apparent irritation. She'd tried, and she'd saved him dying outside his house. She'd held the line at the Harborman bridge. She'd been a big, instrumental part in the town's survival. And, Webb privately thought, a little too renowned in the village than was good for her.

Also, Inu had said, Amie Fern, Ny's best friend in the village, almost like her sister, wizard-in-training, a nice, pretty girl that the Mossfield brothers had picked on almost more than once a day… Amie had died, too, so it wasn't only them, the brothers, feeling the pain of loss.

"How many died?" He was proud of his voice—it didn't waver too much, but it was rougher than usual.

Brother Merring sighed. "Seven." The word was a lament. Obviously, the priest couldn't get there in time. "Including Irine Beasely and Amie."

Irine was the woman, the only female in the militia, that had worked on the bridge with him, Georg, and Jorun before he'd blacked out. He could remember her, a graceful—if somewhat rough—fighter, always the funniest, and always the most surprising. He could picture her now, face pale white against the soot-blackened grass, her golden-blonde waves spread around her like a lion's mane. He worked past the tightening of his throat to ask, "Irine. How?"

When Brother Merring didn't answer, Inu did. "She tried attacking the mage," his sister whispered. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled into a messy bun, her heavy brows pulled into a frown. Dried blood from a cut to her shoulder had crusted on her arm, making her more the part of the weary fighter, and less like the mature little girl he'd known a million years ago. "I… She tripped." Inu's voice broke, and he saw her shudder for a moment, reliving the memory.

Webb forced a small smile. "Hey, you know… she always said she wanted to go out fighting."

"Dad never did." He could see the tears threatening to fall, but through an act of will they never did. He could imagine what she was feeling—she'd always been daddy's little girl. "He always said he wanted to die in his sleep." Her breath hitched, and the tears fell. She bowed her head, hiding her face behind a forearm.

And that was what twisted his stomach the most: the sight of his evil little sister crying her heart out. She didn't sob like the other women did, but took it quiet and ashamed-like. Even now, when she had the most reason to cry, she couldn't even to it all the way. He got up on his elbows and drew Inu towards him. She buried her head in the crook of his arm. He could feel her shaking.

"You'll go over it in your head a thousand times," Merring said wearily. "Over and over. I've done it. But remember, they only died one, and then it was over."

On first take, he sounded pretty harsh, if brutally true, but Webb could recognize the wisdom and comfort in his observations, and he hoped to the Gods that she would someday feel some beginnings of peace that he never would. Nobody died as painfully or as often as the living left behind, who kept reliving the moment of death, and speculating on it. There was no end to their dying once they let it drive out everything else. The loved one whose end they repeatedly tired to endure and imagine was now beyond pain.

"I guess," he mumbled. He seemed to have given him a reserve of emotional oxygen to get him out of a suffocating spot. "We'll all find out one day."

"Yeah…" Inu's articulate response was lost, and he stared up at the ceiling, choking down the lump in his throat. He found himself thinking about, oddly, the elves—Daeghun and his foster daughter, Ny. They were still alive, they'd lost nobody except for Amie… He could see Jorun now, blaming the elves for the attack. _"They're up to something,"_ he'd say. _"Somebody in this fucking village is, that's for damn sure. What the hell is a Kalach-Cha? Some sort of elf weapon? It ain't human."_

_Kalach-Cha._

The enemy had been screaming it, pleading at the top of their lungs—_Find the Kalach-Cha! Find it!_ They didn't find it, even after they burned down three buildings and killed seven innocents trying to protect their home. He thought of Irine again, and wondered how her husband and child were coping.

He couldn't think of Jorun and Wyl—he couldn't. He knew if he did, the floodgates would open and there would be no stopping. He couldn't _no_t pretend they didn't exist, because they did and they were as main a part of his life as anything could be. So he pushed down on the thoughts, focused on Inu and the thought of the elves having something to do with the attack… Somebody fucking did, and instead of grieving, he'd put his efforts into finding what this Kalach-Cha was… and killing the one that carried it.

Brother Merring drew back, a pale sheen of sweat on his brow. "I've stitched it," he said, at first so quietly that Webb could barely hear him over the noise of families crowding over wounded loved ones around him. "I've cast a blessing over the wound. If I am in the Sun God's favor, you will heal quickly."

"Thanks, Brother," Webb muttered. He propped himself up further on his elbows to look at the nasty cut on his chest. A small sliver of watery liquid fell on his wound even as he sat up, stinging. It was a blackened, reddish line stretching from his left shoulder to the right of his hip, a right painful cut that screamed fire when he moved. Merring had carefully woven the cut together when he was unconscious, but now it seemed to scream fire. "Urgh. You think you can do anything for the pain?"

He was expecting another spell, but Merring just reached into the folds of his robes and produced a nice little pile of poppy seeds. He pressed them into Webb's hand, and he lifted it to his mouth, forcing himself to chew and swallow. "Thanks."

But Merring had already left.

Inu exposed her head a bit to wipe something wet off of his cheek. He looked down at her and kissed the top of her head. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, sniffing. "Yeah… yeah, I'm fine."

_Liar._

But then Webb was guilty of the same lie, too.

--

Pitney Lannon, a rather large, smelly human with a humorous disposition, stood looking down at Ny'ren Vollen with an expression one could only describe as forced humor.

"Are we keeping you awake, Ny?" He had a small ax for chopping wood in his hand—still on guard, even after the battle—stained with blue and red blood, just like the one she'd seen Jorun using, but Jorun's weapon was lying next to his dead body a few meters away with all the other dead, and—she forced herself to think it—and Amie. "Look sharp. I bet my season's salary they'll be back again." He leaned heavily on the wall she was using a backrest and slid down into a seating position. "Got to keep the illusion of a hardworking militia."

Ny had now been awake for the better part of forty-eight hours, snatching a few minutes sleep ten minutes before the attack even started. She was hungry: not the usual peckishness of a woman fueling a fast metabolism, but a gnawing sick hunger that demanded satisfaction.

"Yeah…" Her head buzzed with fatigue. It took a conscious effort just to move her muscles. As she reloaded her crossbow, her arms felt like they belonged to someone else, directed by strings she wasn't holding. "Killed a few in the Starling house. Or the bear did. One or the other."

"What?"

"Where's Bevil?"

"You're rambling, lass. Get something to eat, stay alert."

"Here, Ny." Bevil, bless him, crossed over to them with a large sack. "We've been on replenishment run from the Cow and Corset." He opened the string and revealed a treasure-trove of round, sugar-crusted cakes, wafers filled with something brown and gooey, and containers of unnaturally bright red liquid. "Guess what? Free dessert."

Ny had to take off her gloves to eat. She threw them to the ground: at that moment, she didn't care if there was another attack. She had to eat and drink. She didn't even have the energy to flinch as Bevil forced the red liquid down her throat. Every fiber of her body was dedicated to getting one of those cakes in her mouth, and when she finally bit down—it was _exquisite._

It was intensely sweet—calorie-laden, nutritional junk, but pure instant energy. _Bliss_. She felt it and the health potion flood her muscles with renewed life. "I'm never going to ask for discounts again," she said hoarsely. "This is really nice of them."

Bevil's litter brother Telin popped out of nowhere. He grabbed a cake. "Least they can do for us keeping their place from burning down," he said through a mouthful of sweets.

"Yeah, right," Bevil said sarcastically. "I didn't see you out helping."

"Did too!"

"Yeah? When?"

Ny tuned them out. When Bevil and Telin got at it, it took an earthquake to shake them apart—apparently the near-destruction of their home didn't have any bearing on their social standards.

Brother Merring emerged out of the Cow and Corset, looking even more grey than before. Ny understood that all the wounded were being treated on the Corset's own dining tables, and distantly wondered if she'd ever be able to eat there again without remembering. Every further dine-in would be a remote reminder of what happened.

Daeghun Farlong, her unemotional slab of a foster father, was nowhere to be seen—perhaps he was helping the wounded, too. He sure wasn't among them.

Georg and Brother Merring knelt over the dead while Merring placed a blessing on their corpses. Ny had asked him about the blessings once, and figured this was the one to prevent them from coming up as shadow wraiths. It was a sensible precaution—if she were summoned back from the dead as a shadow, she'd have a few choice words to say.

She felt Amie would have, too.

_Why did you have to be a fool, Amie? You should have let Tarmas handle it._

Amie had been burnt to a crisp, right in front of her eyes. Remembering filled her with a dull, numb dread. Tears would come later—Harbormen life had guarded her well to the emotional tortures of the mind. _Amie, Amie, Amie…_

"What were those things?" Ny looked up to see Georg gesturing at one of the tall, elf-like creatures somebody had felled. It had reddish skin and tons of little spikes protruding on its' body like an unpuffed blowfish. Ny's lip curled without her even realizing it. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

Brother Merring glanced behind him and sighed. "Those are bladelings," he said quietly. "Their kind is rarely seen in our land—they dwell in a place beyond."

"Then what in the Nine Hells are they doing here?" the militia leader demanded.

Brother Merring sighed, a sound that could have been associated with the entire situation. "Lathander doesn't illuminate all mysteries for me. We must rely on our own wit and resource alone."

Georg just shook his head. "One of those dwarves mentioned they were searching for something…" He looked around the assembled militia. "Does anybody know what that is?"

Something touched her shoulder, but only lightly. She glanced up, meeting her foster father's moss-green eyes with her own bright violet-blue ones. The small sliver of relief she had when she noted he wasn't harmed vanished soon when she saw the look in his eyes. "Lass," he said quietly, "come over here with me."

He turned around and strode a few meters away, out of earshot of the others, not even bothering to help her up. Bevil gave her a 'just-do-it' look, but Ny was suddenly very conscious of Georg's stare in her direction. She pretended not to notice and stood, her knees popping audibly in protest. Her muscles ached from the battle, as if she had spent an entire week dragging a caravan through mud.

She forced herself to walk over anyway, ignoring the ache in her joints as she did so. She wondered idly if Daeghun was going to ask if she was alright… if he didn't, it wouldn't be that surprising. She was walking, that's what counted. As long as she wasn't trailing a stream of blood behind her, she was perfectly fine. She felt herself hoping, embarrassed, that he would act like Retta Starling for once and be the maternal parent. "Dad?"

"I see you are unharmed," he said, albeit stiffly. "Many have not been so fortunate, and others have seen their final night. I understand you lost a friend in the attack. A tragedy. She was a promising young mage, or so I've been told."

She refused to recall the details, picturing Aren, her extraplaner pet bear, in her mind. Nonetheless, the casual way he mentioned it couldn't have hit her harder than if he'd slapped her… with a hammer. She felt herself shrugging, her eyes drifting away from his. "Yeah, well… the entire attack was a tragedy," she muttered, fidgeting with something in her belt.

"Yes, and to dwell on that loss serves no purpose." She started in surprise—had he pulled her over just to tell her to forget about her best friend? Her eyes flashed dangerously, but he carried on without seemingly to notice. In fact, he leaned in closer—she leaned away, suddenly disgusted. How would he know about the grief she felt right now? She knew it was in vain that she'd searched for maternal love. "There is still much to discuss and we have not much time to talk. There are many who are wounded, Ny. Now, there is something you must do. Tonight."

Her face froze in whatever expression it had been holding. _Oh, gods, he knows_. She forced herself to swallow aquired phlegm and asked, "What?"

"These… bladelings were here to find something, and I fear I know what."

She could always tell Daeghun's mood by the minute signs in his face, but this was a new one… or perhaps one so old that she couldn't remember. Her mind flashed, unbidden, to awkward talks at home about her mother and the look on his face as he told her.

He was hiding something. Something that in nineteen years of her life he'd never bothered to tell her. Something that might'v ejust caused the near-destruction of her home and the death of her best friend. She stiffened, bristling angrily. "So we barely trade words and now you decide to fill me in?" She glared at him.

"Tonight is not a night of words, but of action," he urged. His slanted eyebrows were pulled down over his eyes in a look of intense concentration. "There is an item—_listen to me_." She had begun to look towards Bevil but he grabbed hold of her arm in a vise-like grip. She refused to look in his direction, but stopped, turning her scowl towards the barnyard to her left. _Calm is the key, calm is the key…_ "A silver shard. Long ago, I concealed it in the ruins outside of town. I fear it may have driven those creatures down upon us."

She closed her eyes, counted to five, and opened them. Daeghun let go of her arm. "Why do you think the shard is their goal?" she asked.

"Think it through." _Hypocrite. _"Their kind doesn't plunder a village like West Harbor, not for a few coins and a helm or two. They had a reason."

"Where does the shard come from?"

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Daeghun's expression harden—the turtle going venturing back in his shell. "It is from the time your mother died. Those were… dark times for the village… We will speak more of it later, upon your return. For now, all that matters is its' retrieval."

Ny looked him in the eye, arms crossed. "Why did you hide it? Why didn't you turn it in to Neverwinter or something?"

For the first time, his voice became dangerously sharp. "I had my reasons, which do not concern you right now." She grit her teeth angrily. "It was a thing that should not stay above ground."

"You're the one that hid it!" she exclaimed. "Why don't you go get it?"

"There are too many wounded to care for, more than Brother Merring can handle on his own. I can not go, so you must travel in my stead. There is no choice in the matter."

"I can mend them."

His tone didn't even waver. "The stones outside the village are older and deeper than you may think. In the farthest chamber of the main ruins, look for a strongbox – inside is the shard, wrapped in a blue traveling cloak."

"It sounds simple enough." _Which is why you should get it._

"There remains one thing. You should not go alone." And, to her astonishment, he turned back to where Bevil Starling was standing, watching them with a curious eye but still out of hearing range. Daeghun took a few steps closer. "Bevil. I need you to accompany my daughter to the ruins. This is an important task."

"Why don't you announce it to the entire village?" Ny grumbled.

Bevil was nothing if not shocked by this proposal. "But Georg says the ruins have been overrun by lizardling tribes…"

"I can't believe this," she muttered. Ny glared at Daeghun.

"And that is why you must go. Together, two can succeed where one might fail." Daeghun gave Ny a pointed look. "The cries of the wounded cannot be ignored and longer. Find the shard, Ny. Find it, and bring it here."

They both watched him enter the Cow and Corset, and Bevil shook his head sadly. "No offense meant, Ny, but your father makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up."

Ny snorted. "Yeah, me, too."

"I'm serious." Ny nodded absentmindedly. "I'm just hoping the shard is still there when we get into the ruins. I mean, it's been there so long that I have to believe it's been picked clean by now. Sorry… couldn't help but listen in on you two. You looked mad."

She turned to regard him coolly. "How good are you with that sword?" she asked, gesturing to the one that hung slung across his back. In all their various conversations, they'd never once discussed weapons and strategy except on Harvest Fair days.

A small smile flitted across his face. "I'm one of the best of the new militia. If we had the time, maybe I could teach you a thing or two."

She shook her head, forcing herself to descend into the friendly banter—anything to get rid of Daeghun's words echoing in her head. "Not all warriors learn their trade in the militia. I might surprise you."

"Well, I suppose we'll see then. But if you're as good with that weapon as you're letting on, you should join."

Ny shrugged her shoulders. "Did Daeghun send you to spy on me?" The words hung in the air a moment, and in that moment she realized it was her that said them. She turned her face away to hide the flame of embarrassment crawling up her cheeks.

Bevil only snorted. "Spying on you would be a full-time job – the way you get around. The Mere is dangerous, you know, as much as you treat it like your own backyard. He probably only figured you could use an extra sword-arm, especially where we're going."

She nodded sagely. She had no idea where that had come from, but oh, well. She sighed, glancing back towards the Harborman River, where their path would start. She knew the swampy woods better than anybody in the village, perhaps even more so than her father, but the very idea of assaulting a lizardling camp with their limited resources in the dead of night didn't appeal to her. It was their land there, and she hadn't been anywhere near there since they'd taken over there six years go. _I really don't like this_. "What do you know of the ruins?" she wondered. Perhaps Bevil knew more than she did—she hoped so.

"Hold on a second, you're asking me, right?" He barked a laugh, and she could see he wasn't as pleased about it as she was. "You spend every waking moment out there in the swamp – always out of doors. You probably know the ruins better than anybody in town."

Great.

"Lizardlings are best left to themselves." She chose her next words carefully. "Peaceful coexistence and all that."

"Georg says the same thing, though he thinks it's best not to stir up a hornet's next when the hornets are minding their own business. Lizardlings can be… terr… terrata…" He paused, floundering for words. "Protective of what's theirs. And I don't think you'll be able to talk things over with them, either. This isn't going to be easy."

Ny closed her eyes. "I hope you have a lot of health potions, Bevil," she muttered. _Gods curse it, Amie, why'd you have to die? We need you._

"We need an extra sword," she muttered. "I don't like this. I really don't."

She felt eyes boring into her back, and for once it wasn't Georg or the others that had caught the whiff of trouble. It was Inu, the Mossfields' youngest sister, leaning not a foot away from the Cow and Corset pub. Her face was a study of suppressed shock. They locked eyes, and Inu looked away quickly. "I know it's not your fault, Ny," she muttered, shifting her weight foot-to-foot. "But my da was right about Daeghun. He's an arrogant fool."

Ny pursed her lips, nodded once. Out of the shadows, Webb Mossfield laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Webb's lip was curled in a snarl. "Get inside, Inu," he whispered. His sister gave him a beseeching look, but he just shook his head. She disappeared after Daeghun, and he started to walk towards them. She noticed he had a shirt on covering the wound she'd treated during the battle. "So you need an extra hand."

Ny found herself unable to look away_. No, don't do it_. "Yes," she said quietly.

His brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat from the crowded bar, his knuckles and face bruised and bloodied up, but he still walked, hand over the large hammer hanging from his waist. "Then I'm your guy," he said simply, daring them to disapprove.

Ny bit her lip, thought about it, and finally nodded. "Then you're our guy."

He nodded, satisfied. "Good, because I don't need no hy-fucking-pothesis to know you're in deep shit, Vollen."

She heard Bevil's quiet intake of breath, which was his silent 'oh wonderful'. "Are you sure about this, Ny?"

She shook her head. "If he dies, we could always say the banshees got him."

Bevil's face reddened at an unpleasant memory. "His life," he grumbled, and turned away. It was going to be a long night. She looked over at Webb again, and she could see the momentary tightness of his eyes, how he seemed hunched over a little bit. He was in pain, still. She had no idea how that would impact his fighting, but behind his eyes she could see the smoldering flame of something more, deeper and more primal than an animal.

His rage and fear would work to their advantage. But how much?


	3. The Ruins

**Chapter 3**

"_The direct use of force is such a poor solution to any problem, it is generally employed only by small children and large nations."_ ; **Nighthawk proverb**

--

**Three hours post-Incursion**

The first thing that caught Ny'ren's attention in the lizardmen camp was the smell of barbeque.

It was the smell of _mea_t, savory, juicy meat. Hiding behind the thick shadow of a giant oak tree, Ny couldn't help but admire the smell. They had plenty of food from West Harbor, but after the fight and the hour-and-a-half journey to that point, in which Bevil and Webb had bickered all the way like old ladies, any type of meat sounded good to Ny. Her stomach growled, too faint for the humans to hear, but enough for her to realize how hungry she still was, even with the sweetcakes still digesting.

"Can you smell that?" She heard the longing in her voice, and decided then and there that when she got back—when, not if—she would kill a big game bird and eat the entire thing. The old Neverwinter proverb, 'Hunger is the finest sauce', was never more apt.

Campfires dotted the winding soggy marsh trail into the lizardmen camp, too great to successfully dodge unless you were willing to cross the bog, which Bevil and Webb had refused to do straight-out on the basis of Georg's swamp-banshee stories. Maybe the lizardmen relied on the stories to keep out their enemies. Ny had no idea. She could see the faint outline of their target, a small structure of fading gray stonework descending into the earth. Six silhouettes with big swords stood vigilant guard. _Must be where the leader is, _Ny thought. Once again, she cursed her foster-father for sending her. It was a suicide mission.

As if he was reading her thoughts, Bevil groaned. "I'd hate to die hungry."

Webb took a deep sniff, then a few more, painfully loud to her elven ears. "Dog," he finally said. "Ugh, yeah. Overcooked, too. Shit, those things eat anything." He shook his head, disgusted. "Maybe they'll end up eating each other and save us a few arrows."

Lizardmen were swamp natives, alright—they ate anything they could get their hands on. They had no restricting thoughts such as pets or cannibalism. Ny just tried to remember they had thoughts and feelings, too. It was suicide to even think yourself better than another species as a whole: more often than not, you'd get your ass handed to you just for it. All one had to do was remember Governor Mannis and his prejudice against dwarves. In fact, all one had to do was look at Webb's father Jorun's distinctive hate towards elves, and she tried to save him.

She wondered how Webb knew the difference of smells between cow, pig, and dog. It'd be an interesting question to ask him if they got out alive—and probably an even more interesting answer.

"Yeah, very helpful," Bevil muttered sourly. He had three dogs of his own. She bet that Muttonchop, Locke, and Nasher would be getting extra table scraps when they got home.

"We need a plan of action," Ny said, counting the numbers of lizardmen around the campfires and on patrols. "There's twelve of them so far, not counting the six guarding the place and the others down in there, and if their civilization is anything to go by, I'm betting their leader down there is the strongest. How do we get down there with enough strength to hold our own?"

They'd been lucky so far. They'd only barely missed lizardmen forest patrols on the way in, but if Webb and Bevil thought they could take on all of them, they were sadly mistaken. She checked her belt—her health potion was still there, emitting a silent mental warning. It seemed to say _you're going to get hurt no matter what you do so make up your mind._

Webb's expression soured. "That's a lot."

"The question is… how can we sneak past them?" she wondered. It wasn't like dodging a pack of wolves—these things were slightly more intelligent, and not even a prayer to their gods would save Bevil or Webb from making a mistake and stumbling. She wondered if they could somehow barricade the ruin door from the inside, but how would they get out again_? I don't plan on dying underground and being eaten like cattle—or dog_. "Guys, the only way in is the bog."

"No, that's stupid, there has to be a way around it."

"There's extra patrols behind the ruin, Bevil. We'll never pass through."

Webb only shook his head. "I'm agreeing with Starling. You can blame Georg when we get back. I want to see my little sister again."

And Inu would kill her if Webb came back with more than a fair share of scratches on him.

"What if we ask Aren? She can't die, can she?" Bevil asked.

Her temper abruptly heightened. "Doesn't mean she should try it," she snapped. Aren, her extraplaner bear, could die and return back to her home on the Astral Plane to be called back again in a day or so, but she felt pain like any living creature, and through the druid charms on the figurine she used to call her, Ny could feel the tenor of her familiar's emotions and heard and saw what she did if she really concentrated. She'd never use Aren as a sacrificial piece—never.

"You said the bog was safe," Webb countered.

Ny gave him a look of utmost loathing.

"How about we just follow the trail?" Bevil suggested. "It won't be that—"

"You're assuming the lizardmen are as smart as the dog their eating, Starling," Webb growled. "You think we can take on all of them like that? This is their home."

"You're all impossible," Ny groaned. Placing her foot on one of the tree's natural recesses, she began to pull herself up on to the highest branch, careful not to disturb the nesting animals there. It only offered her a slightly better view, and that was of another camp she'd missed, hidden in another large tree's shadow.

A strangled gasp came from below.

"Aren's back," Bevil said calmly, but his voice quickly turned from amused to disgusted in a heartbeat. "Ugh. Gross."

"Good, erm, bear. Nice bear, eating that bad spider-thing for us."

Spider-thing?

Ny quickly disentangled herself from the branches and dropped to the ground. Her familiar, Aren, stood disturbingly close to Bevil. Larger than most wild bears in Faerun, Aren had a russet coat about the same shade as Ny's, with her own violet-blue eyes. Ny, by all standards a short woman, was a few inches shorter than her: Aren would always have to bend her neck a little to lick her forehead… not that Ny would want licking, now. In her mouth, Aren carried a large… spider. It was swamp-green, once again larger than Ny, with dozens of glassy blue eyes set on its' domed head. It had no visible marks on its' body except for whatever was hidden in her mouth. Even as she watched, Aren dropped it unceremoniously at her feet.

Ny smiled grimly, scratching her familiar behind the ears. They looked each other in the eyes, and through that medium, Ny saw everything she had seen, and she wasn't happy about it. "Looks like they're domesticating spiders," she muttered. "Eating dogs and keeping swamp-spiders as pets. Strange."

"Yeah?" Webb snarled. She heard a small click as he reloaded his crossbow. "We don't eat spiders."

"Focus, Mossfield."

"Sure, Vollen."

"Anyway, I counted at least four campfires, including the one behind the oak back there, plus the six guarding the ruins and whatever patrols are within earshot…" Her frown felt permanently etched into her face. "So no bog, then, I'll give Georg hell when we get back…"

"So our only option's straight foreword." Webb probably needed a good smack to get that sneer off his face. "What'd I tell you, elf?"

She decided not to respond to that. It was just his grief talking, after all. He needed somebody to wail on: who better than a small elf who's been his enemy since day one of 'fighting class?' He was like Daeghun, just the ways they dealt with their respective losses differed. _He'll realize soon that Wyl and Jorun weren't exactly the epitome of humankind, and maybe his attitude will change. I hope Inu isn't too sad. The girl had common sense._

Unfortunately, there was no way to get in without fighting. Against every instinct that told her not to, Ny gave the order, knowing that that was what they were waiting for. "So we'll split up," she said. "Bevil and Aren will go up ahead, and we'll stand back and shoot." Simple. Easy. _Oh, go get the shard, lass. It's just in the ruins, shouldn't take you too long. Yeah, right._

She didn't miss that cautious glance Bevil threw Aren, highlighted in the Hunter's Moon. "Okay," he said. His greatsword was clasped in both hands, it's dull edges seemingly more prominent now than before. Ny wondered if she was sending him to his death.

_Relax. It's only two. Aren can handle eight._

She didn't relax. The moment she relaxed was the moment everything went wrong.

"Be careful," she advised.

Webb was already taking aim, edging foreword at a much slower pace than Bevil and Aren's. "I'll shoot when they're halfway there," he said. "You take the one on the left."

She was right beside him, Daeghun's own duskwood bow in her grip, arrow notched and ready. One eye closed, she lined up the lizardman's scaly head with the small wooden protrusion on the center of the shaft. "On my mark," she said quietly. "Three, two, _go_."

She let the arrow release. It made barely a sound, shooting towards her target with impeccable aim. Webb's crossbow was louder, uttering a muffled _twang!_ as the dart was released.

Her target went down. The other one didn't. Webb cursed. And there was a spider coming up on Bevil's left. She resisted the urge to shout out a warning, and, heart in her throat, reloaded again. She had time to think, _Lizard or spider?_, before releasing the string. The arrow penetrated the spider's thick head, killing it instantly.

As soon as the first lizarling went down, Aren took off, suddenly too fast for a human male to match pace with. Ny watched her hind legs come together and, with a mighty bounce, she leapt on top of the lizardman, crushing him under her weight. Ny heard a small crunch, and then the night was silent once more.

Three more to go.

--

About half an hour later—or, more precisely, forty-five minutes later—Ny cradled the shard in her hands. Webb only gave it a curious glance and wandered away to pick through the dead bodies. "I wonder when they start to stink," he said. "All the rot in here's horrible."

"It's what they live in." Ny stuck the thing in her pack and closed the lid. It's automatic lock snapped shut. "Let's head back."

Webb nodded, toeing their dead chieftain with the tip of his boot and admiring the play of light over his scales. He bent down to take off the golden ruby ring on his long finger, and pocketed it. A sharp pain shot through his chest, and he barely contained a hiss.

"Time to go." Bevil and Ny stood at the entrance to the chamber. "You coming, Mossfield?"

"Yeah. Give me a moment. Guy's giving me a funny look." He straightened up, trying to cover a grimace of pain with a smirk. He kicked the dead chieftain hard in the side before continuing to the door. "Freaking lizards."


	4. How the Dead Weep

**Chapter 4**

"_The goal of all life is death_." ; **Kelevmor disciple**

**--**

**Thirty-six years BSI (before Second Incursion) – Unknown location**

The figure gripped the edge of the cliff, held there in the battering thunderstorm by sheer strength alone. His legs flailed, struggling to find a decent foothold, and when he found one the rock crumbled under his weight. He extended his leg above him as far as he could, stretching out all the areas in his leg that _shouldn't _be stretched at his age, then used his arm as a fulcrum to pull himself up on to the cliff side. He landed there, bleeding and panting, but wasted no time in rolling to his feet and pressing his shoulder against the cliff face to buffet the wind.

A flash of lightning illuminated a small, cloaked man standing not four meters away in the winding trail. He beckoned to the dark figure, and turned around. The figure followed him, shivering in the freezing rain.

"You have come just in time, Master Fuller," the cloaked man said, his voice nearly drowned out by the wind. He walked quickly, though the rain and thunder seemed to be of no concern to him.

"Well, they summoned me, didn't they?" Fuller shot back.

The cloaked man gave a long, rasping laugh, but said so more. They hurried along the old, beaten-down goat trail until they reached the top, which was as dry and rocky as the part of the trail they just crossed. The cloaked man led him towards a small depression and muttered words too low for Fuller, even with his advanced hearing, to hear. There was no visible change, but Fuller knew what was coming next, and braced himself for it.

Fuller's feet hit the ground hard. Immediately, the sounds of the storm were buffeted, to be replaced by a loud, pulsing hum he could feel through the soles of his feet, up his chest, to the back of his teeth. He let out an involuntary hiss as a fair amount of energy was leeched out of his system, and swayed. Rough hands caught his shoulders before he fell to the ground, steadying him as his system adapted to the change.

"I always hate this part," he muttered, his voice rough with the stress the magical energies were exacting on his system.

"Really?" the cloaked man asked. "I don't even notice it." Through the candlelight flickering in the cavern, Fuller caught a glimpse of the Caretaker's sharp-toothed ironic smile.

The Caretaker leaned in close enough that Fuller could pick out every mole and facial deformity on his yellowed, sagging skin. His eyes, pure white, focused on his, and rotten breath hit his nostrils with the force of a wall. Disgusted, he leaned away from the Caretaker's grip. "I wonder why," he muttered. Even though the Caretaker hid most of the effects with a raised cowl, spending too much time in the Fated Caverns effectively leeched the life out of the body until the mind put up a sufficient defense. You either died or you got ugly, and most times the Caretakers never had a choice.

Fuller wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his head, and gestured with the other. "I'm good now." The Caretaker let go of him and moved to the side, a shadow in the dark. The caverns were circular, gloomy, and rocky. Flickering yellow Sentry Orbs floated in varying spots along the damp passage, casting a light ten times better than a normal candle. Blue-gray mist gathered at their feet, swirling around their ankles in a strange dance of colors.

The Caretaker led him along the passage, hunched over as if a great weight was pressing on his shoulders. Fuller, in his five-hundred and forty-three years of serving Lifestream and His prophets, knew better than to ask what the chance meeting was about, or if he could help the Caretaker along. Though the Caretakers were Blessed with Immortality–as he was–if they adapted, they lost most of their youthful energy and had to rely on the Prophets to be able to move. Outside on the rocky mountains, the Caretaker had been far outside the Prophets' influence. Back where the hum was, his body was equally adapting to the sudden burst of strength as Fuller was adapting to the loss of his.

Master Fuller was a tall man, strong-faced and lean with muscle. A thick beard sprouted on his chin, black-streaked-gray, and his long salt-and-pepper hair was trapped in a high ponytail. His pale green eyes observed every potential hiding place in the caverns, and his shoulders never relaxed. He wore the rough, resistant cloth of a blacksmith, one of his many aliases in the city of Neverwinter. Though he didn't look a day older than fifty-seven, Jeremy Fuller was one of the few outside of the Caretaker's little circle Blessed by Lifestream with the gift of Immortality. The only other active-duty Nighthawk with the Blessing was their current leader, and he was the second-in-command.

Lifestream, the Ravenbrand, created the Nighthawks in the early beginnings of Neverwinter. Nighthawks were at first a spin-off on the more traditional Neverwinter Nine, but began to take on more responsibilities from the current Lord of Neverwinter until they worked around the clock almost all the time. They were the mystical protectors of their country, Blessed with numerous gifts by the Ravenbrand and, through Him, the Seven Prophets, which were ancient telthor beasts called forth by Lifestream to carry out His will. There were only fifteen Nighthawks at a time, and thirty trainees. It was a harsh world, and sometimes trainees died in the training, or they just left. And the Nighthawks always met their end somehow, or were retired into normal Greycloak services after they've lived past their usefulness.

The problem was, Fuller already had his thirty trainees and fifteen Nighthawks. Ever since he was Blessed, he'd never taken on more than that number. It was confusing, but it led him to believe that the Seven Prophets had a more pressing matter to bring to his attention–something bad. He'd always prided himself on his precognition in certain situations, but not even a tot would be oblivious to the trouble he could feel brewing beneath the soles of his feet.

The cavern opened up towards a larger room, smoothed by the wind trapped within. Once he was past the soundbarriers, the crackling of flames and the sounds of rushing water hit his ears, nearly deafening him. Behind a thick curtain of mist, a larger-than-life fire easily half the size of a small building burned in the center. Above the crackling blue-white flames, a telthor water-dragon swayed against the ball of rushing river-water that was its' prison, its' two eyes bigger than Fuller himself. Its' pearly scales rippled in the light, and where the water met fire there was a hiss of smoke. As he entered, the water-spirit froze, but its' tail continued to twist in flip, locked in an endless circle of dance.

He bowed at his waist. "It's an honor, m'lady Jesseman," he said politely. Even though the spirit couldn't hear him beyond the confines of the elemental war raging within her cage, the intent was clear. Her white eyes glowed softly in recognition.

The Caretaker, who had followed in behind him, suddenly straightened. He walked beside the fire, throwing back the cowl of his hood and exposing not the yellowed flesh Fuller saw outside, but a glowing, blue-white presence that never failed to scare the hells out of him. His cloak lifted off the ground, and he levitated two meters in the air, swaying as though under water. When he spoke, the voice was no longer male, but a strong, deep feminine that had both the power to comfort a child and halt a parade-ground march. _"We have listened to Our god Lifestream, and We speak His Will only. Jeremy Fuller, man of renown, love lost and of no regret, We have summoned you, and you have come."_

He knelt to the ground, head bowed. "I am honored, O Prophets, to stand within your presence and feel the hum of your aura around me," he said with sincerity, reciting the age-old phrase older than even himself.

"_To give your life to Him, to work through His Will, is that the life you desire?"_

"Yes, O Prophets."

"_Then let us begin. You may rise, Jeremy Fuller."_ He rose to his feet, raising his eyes to look at Jesseman. He always preferred talking to her, the Leader of the Circle, over the others. She was comforting in a way that Pael the Wolf just wasn't. _"Thirty and fifteen there are and have been for as long as you have been in Our service," Jesseman continued, speaking through the Caretaker. "The currents have always been so, but they have changed. There is another, a female human. She must be found. She must be trained."_

"Do we know why she has been chosen?" Fuller asked.

The water-spirit closed her eyes. _"I saw her in a dream,"_ the Caretaker said with her voice. _"A dream of ages past, of the future, and of the present. She was born in Rainfall, within the Valley of Souls, and lives in Neverwinter now. She is an important piece of a puzzle that hasn't even manifested itself yet."_

Fuller's felt his jaw drop. Rainfall was the site of a horrific battle so long ago that not even the Prophets remembered what it was about, but the area was leeched in magic so old and ancient that it twisted the spells of any who entered and had peculiar effects upon its visitors. Nobody, not even the brave Nighthawks, visited the flourishing land. There was no protection there, and over the years, citizens noticed it, too, and renamed it the Dead Forest. For a baby to be born there... "She must be... unique," he forced out.

"_Indeed."_

"Are there any side-effects of what happened?" he asked.

The water-spirit opened her eyes, grave beyond measure. "_She has been born with an ability that has only flourished recently,"_ Jesseman said. _"Her grandmother passed away yesterday. A barrier in her mind was removed by the emotional tragedy, and her aura flared as bright and as white as ever. She acted like a torch to the undead, to the shades that never passed on. They are attracted to her, and only she can see them. What she is doing is resounding everywhere on the Astral Plane–she draws us to her. She talks to us with no apparent effort. Do you know what this could mean to the Nighthawks?"_

Fuller shook his head mutely. "It's so much to take in... so many possibilities..."

"_We have visited her in her dreams and convinced her to keep it quiet. Next year we were going to send her to you, but this has sped up our process. You will watch her training yourself–become a father figure to her, mentor her, and treat her as you would your own daughter. This is Lifestream's personal wish, and Our own."_

Fuller, heart pounding, bowed. "I will do as you command, m'lady," he said softly. "Is there any way to determine what the effect this will have on the child's mind?"

"_She is learning fast. She is one of a kind, and figuring this out on her own. We have no guidance for her, and we cannot reverse it. Her aura is as wild and unpredictable as the place she was borne."_

Fuller nodded. "I understand."

"_Do not get too close to her, or let her cloud your duty to the Nighthawks."_

He frowned. "Have you seen something in her future?"

"_There are many paths to follow, and not all will come true," _Jesseman said, her voice tinged with sadness. _"Our job is to prophet, yours is to do. Do you accept your charge?"_

Jesseman was hiding something, but that was her right. He only had to accept. But he wasn't the kind of man to follow anything without questioning, and this seemed to be the biggest thing yet. "I need answers first," he said. "You say she might cloud my duty and loyalty, but they are as strong as ever. It's in your voice, m'lady, and I do not feel right about serving as a pawn."

The Caretaker's growl shook the cave.

"With all due respect," Fuller added.

And in short, clipped sentences, Jesseman told him.

--

"You always want to keep your thumb on the outside," Sabrae's dad said, demonstrating the correct position. "If you keep it inside, you'll break it if you hit somebody too hard. Like that. See? Good girl."

Sabrae basked in her father's praise, even though she thought it was a strange way to punch. It felt different—really iweird./i The seven-year-old tomboy looked up at her father's approving face, and he bounced her on his lap a few times. They sat in his small, cramped study and she sat on his lap. Bright sunlight filtered through the trees in the backyard streamed through the overhead window and highlighted the many papers her father worked on. "But why will it break my thumb?" she asked. "It doesn't feel like it would."

Behind her father, a semi-transparent woman in her thirties watched disapprovingly. Sabrae knew her: she was a grumpy shade that didn't like women fighting, and liked her Aunt Daydrin even less.

"Because of all the stress," he said matter-of-factly. "The human body is ivery/i very fragile, and you only have to get it wrong once to seriously hurt yourself." He took her tiny fist and shook it for emphasis. "Remember: self-defense only. If I see you going out to hit Jacob and Roland there'll be a lot of trouble, got that?"

"Why are the boys allowed to get in fights?" she muttered sulkily. "Girls can, too."

"If boys get in fights, it's because their parents haven't instructed them right," her father said severely. His chocolate-brown eyes, mirrored on to her own face, crinkled when he smile. "But you are."

She pressed her chest closer against his arm—her first fighting lesson was going great so far. She'd already been taught not to use her body for unwarranted violence, but she never knew the thing about the fist. It only further solidified the idolizing position she held Nicolas Telcho in. "Okay… when do we get to play with the swords?" she asked eagerly.

The shade in the corner passed a frustrated hand over her almond eyes.

Whatever his response would've been was cut off when mom, Besany, appeared in the doorway. Sabrae looked over and held up her hand, demonstrating her fist. Mom smiled grimly. "That's very good, honey. Nick, your sister's here—she says it's very important."

Sabrae saw dad grimace out of the corner of her eye. Gently, but firmly, he slipped her off of his leg. "Run off and play with Valin, okay? Tell him I said Aunt Daydrin's here."

"Will you teach me after Aunt Daydrin leaves?" she asked.

"I don't know yet. We'll see, honey, okay?"

Mom came over and took her hand before she could object. "I'll come in in a few minutes to brew some tea."

Dad nodded, but it seemed like he was in an entire different thought process. Sabrae felt a shiver down her back—something was wrong, and her parents were trying to keep it from her. Dad never looked like that when Aunt Daydrin came over. As mom drug her outside, the shade of a dead tabby rubbed against her legs. "What's wrong? Why's dad like that?" she asked.

Her mother smile didn't reach her eyes. "Nothing, honey," she said. "Aunt Daydrin's been having some problems at work lately. Nothing catastrophic."

"What does catastrophic mean?"

"Big and bad."

"Oh. Then why's dad so sad?"

Her mother laughed. "Sad? Why would you think that?"

"Because ever since Aunt Daydrin came around _last_ time you guys were moping." Actually, that wasn't true. She knew her parents were sad, but not because of Aunt Daydrin.

Granny died two days ago. Sabrae knew this even in the fact her parents hadn't told her. She'd _felt_ her passing late in the night, and she'd been so distraught at first before granny came to her room and talked to her about it and how glad she was she went. She visited Sabrae every night, humming a sad song until she went to sleep. Sometimes she brought friends—funny men in suits, a little six-year-old boy, and talking animal spirits. In a dream that first night, Sabrae was told by a water-spirit and a phoenix not to spread around her strange power. Sabrae wasn't that stupid. She was scared of being locked in the asylum.

The tabby shade looked up at her with large brown eyes. "Besany!" her dad called from inside. "Come here, please."

"Go play with Valin," mom instructed. "Don't come inside, okay honey? Adult conversation."

"Sure, sure," Sabrae muttered. Her mom left her with the tabby shade, and Sabrae gathered him into her arms, wondering. The tabby spirit wasn't cold, but a pulsing warmth that seeped through her limbs. "Is something catastrophic happening inside?" she asked the tabby softly.

_Yes._

So she was right. Some bad _was_ happening. But before she could ask what, Aunt Daydrin came out of the house… and she looked angry. Her aunt looked just like her, only bigger and badder than Sabrae ever hoped to be. She was a Greycloak Sergeant, and whne she was mad _everybody_ knew. "Valin!" she called. "Where's your sister?"

_Bad things coming, Sparrow, _the tabby whispered, using the name the cat had given her at their first real meeting. _Let me down._

"Don't run away," Sabrae whispered, struck with a sudden fear. Why was Daydrin looking for her?

_I will not._

"Thank you," she breathed. The knot in her chest loosened just a bit. She bent over and let the cat on the ground, where it slinked away towards the inside of the house. "—where she's at," Valin was way.

"Right here," Sabrae said, stepping out of the shadows. "Hi, Aunt Daydrin. Why're you angry?"

Maybe her aunt saw the fear in her face, because her eyes closed momentarily as if she were in pain, and she took a few deep breaths. "Sabrae, honey, come here."

Valin put down the thrashball and stood behind her protectively when she came nearer. "What's going on?" the fifteen-year-old asked suspiciously.

Daydrin knelt down on one knee to look Sabrae straight in the eye. "Sabrae, honey, there's a man that's going to ask you a few questions," she said soothingly. "I need you to be perfectly honest with him, okay?"

"Why?" Valin demanded. "What'd she do?"

Daydrin squeezed Sabrae's hand. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Sabrae stared into her chocolate brown eyes, numb beyond belief. She started to shake, and at first she didn't know why—until she realized that she was _terrified._ She wanted to tell Daydrin so _much,_ to show her how nice the shades really were. But what if she shunned her? Treated her like a freak? Sabrae couldn't take that. She just couldn't. Tears forming in her eyes, she shook her head soundlessly.

"Sabrae, I know it's hard, but you have to tell me _something_."

"But you'll think I'm a weirdo," she whispered chokingly.

"Honey, no, I won't, I promise."

Sabrae looked at her feet, shaking her head.

Daydrin held her gaze from a few more seconds before drying her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. "There now, no crying in front of him, okay? It'll be all better soon, trust me. This man looks really scary at first, but he wouldn't hurt a fly, I promise."

Valin disappeared inside the house.

Sabrae nodded, wiping her eyes. "W-Why does he want to talk to me?"

"He says you have a special talent." Daydrin's tone grew grim. "He won't tell us, though. He says what happens next all depends on what you say. Sabrae, are you _sure_ there's nothing you want to tell me?"

She sniffed. "Can I t-tell you later?"

_Come inside. Big man getting impatient._

Daydrin nodded, oblivious to the tabby beside her knee. "Sure. Sure. Come here, little girl." She held open her arms and hugged Sabrae tight to her chest. "Remember, don't be afraid of him."

--

Her first impression was that she was _very_ afraid of this big man. He was tall and muscular, and he had a big long scar stretching across his face. His black and gray hair was long and pulled in a high ponytail she sometimes wore, and he had a bushy beard. His pale green eyes locked on to her's with intensity, and she cowered behind Aunt Daydrin's leg.

But that wasn't why she was afraid. Around him clung a transparent mist that shimmered in different colors, streaks of light twisting around his person like a web. They screamed at her to run, to get away from him, because he was a murderer and he would kill her, too.

The faces in the mist were jumbled. She saw different species, some she didn't even know existed, giant lizardmen, trolls, humans, children, babies crying…

He smiled at her, the look so at odds with the mist around him. He knelt down and offered his hand to her, but she didn't take it. She tugged on Daydrin's sleeve, and she bent down to hear her whisper, "He's gonna kill us. We have to get out."

"He won't kill us," she whispered back. "Don't worry."

"Can't you see that?"

"See what?"

And then it occurred to her that the mist was the spirits of the men and women he killed, stuck around him like a thick armor. She shuddered, and shook her head. She could feel the tears coming again, and tried not to sob into her aunt's fatigues. _Those are… all the people he killed,_ she thought numbly.

And they were _loud,_ too. She couldn't concentrate on one voice alone—it was like a million, all in her head talking to her. Roars, babies crying, women screaming, men yelling… It hurt her head, sent a streak of pain so sharp through her skull that she almost fell to her knees.

"Sabrae?" Her father came over, hesitant. "This is Master Fuller. He's a… teacher. He's going to ask you a few questions."

She nodded against her aunt's breast. _Make the noises stop, _she begged.

Master Fuller came over slowly, his hand still held out. "Are you Sabrae Telcho?"

"No," she whispered, voice muffled. "She lives down the street."

Daydrin smacked her bottom with her free hand. "Tell the truth, Sabrae." She shuddered so violently that Daydrin brought her into another hug. "You know, this is too much for her. Whatever you're doing, stop it right now. You're _terrifying _her."

"I can't do anything about the way I look," Master Fuller said softly. "Sabrae? Is that your name? I don't know what you saw, but I have an idea. Can you explain that to me, please?"

She shook her head against her aunt's shirt. Aunt Daydrin seemed to be shivering, like she was really cold, but after a moment Sabrae noticed it was _her._ And she couldn't stop. The voices were too _loud._ "Get away from my child," mom hissed, and Sabrae heard her place herself between her and the murderer. "You're scaring her."

"I'm letting you into our house, but that doesn't mean you have to hurt our family," dad said crisply. "Don't you go hurting my daughter."

"I can't help what she's seeing," Master Fuller said sadly. "It's who I am. Sabrae, can I touch your hand?"

"No!" she shrieked. She turned around to glare at him, but her legs turned to jelly beneath her. She fell, sprawled against the ground. Master Fuller came over to help her up, and she began to _scream_ at the top of her lungs, unintelligible shouts that made her throat raw and her head hurt more. Master Fuller caught one of her flailing arms in his hand and grabbed her wrist hard, and as soon as they touched the screams grew impossibly louder. They were all she knew, she could see them in front of her, she could see them in their last moments, through _their_ eyes—

She couldn't help it. It was too much.

Seven-year-old Sabrae Telcho fainted.


	5. Offers

Chapter 5

She isn't such a little girl anymore ; Kane to brother Valin on Sabrae

--

_Wake up, Sparrow. Daylight here._

Sabrae Telcho blinked in the bright sunlight streaming through her window, shielding her eyes with her bed covers. The light reacted badly with her eyes, causing the already throbbing pain in her head to double. _Wow, my head hurts,_ she thought.

She held her fingers out, beckoning to the dark tabby she knew was… somewhere. "Are you there?" she whispered.

_Yes._ The tabby pressed itself into her fingers, rubbing his soft fur against her five digits experimentally. _Little Sparrow is at the foot of the bed. Asleep. Don't knock him off._

It could only mean Tristan. He must've had a bad dream in the middle of the night and came to sleep with her. He was still having nightmares of Valin's old Nighthawk stories he told him last weekend, so it wasn't impossible. "Thanks, Kitty," she said, yawning. _Wow, my head _really _hurts…_

She laid in her bed for a while, trying to remember the conversation she had with granny the night before. The first night was about her death, the second was about her seeing dead people… but what was last night's? Sabrae couldn't even remember. Did granny even show up, or did she move on?

Come to think about it, she couldn't even remember what bedtime story she read to Tristan, or what she had for dinner…

It was weird for her not to remember. She could _always_ remember things in really good detail. Dad called it eidetic memory or something, but she just thought she was paying attention. Obviously, last night she _wasn't._ She remembered disjointed dreams of screaming innocents as they burned in the fire, flashes of fear and being pursued in the longest alley by a tall man with pale green eyes…

She closed her eyes tightly, focusing on the pounding in her skull. The man with green eyes was a new one, probably just a phantom conjured up by her imagination. She remembered _him_ most vividly… muscular, thick-haired, scarred, a heavy web of interlacing mists that seemed to dance around him feet…

The crazy dreams she had sometimes…

"Kitty, what did we do last night?" she whispered. "I can't remember."

_We stayed in bed. _

"Did granny come at all?"

_She came, and asked for an explanation. She's left early to harass the other dead people with a meat cleaver._

Sabrae frowned. "Why'd you let me go to sleep?" she insisted. "I needed to talk to her about…" She frowned. She was about to say 'the man with the green eyes', but that would've been stupid. It was just a dream.

Kitty stuck his head through one of the few open spaces in the comforter, letting off a soft white-blue aura in the darkness that outlined every feature in the cat's face. And if a cat could look skeptical, it was doing a great job. _Your mind needed to rest,_ he said. _You would've have died from sensory overload if you had stayed conscious. _Kitty cocked his head. _Can you remember?_

Startled, Sabrae started to shake her head, but stopped. Kitty never lied to her, at least not yet. "The man with the green eyes?" she asked softly.

_Yes._ Another step closer. _And the ones he killed._

Her hear began to pound frantically in her chest. She struggled to remember the most vivid parts of the dream—the man, the mist, how he wanted to _touch_ her…

She moaned at the memory and the pain it caused to flare up in her head. "He was real?!"

Something shifted on the foot of her bed, and she screamed. She about kicked it off when she remembered Kitty's advice when she woke up. She shuddered violently at the memory, tears automatically dripping on to her bedsheet.

Kitty rubbed his fur against her face comfortingly, wiping off the tears. She struggled not to weep, and it worked, mostly. The weight on her bed shifted again, and then Tristan was crawling towards her. Kitty scrambled out of the way just as Tristan lifted up the covers and snuggled in next to her. "Why're you crying, Sabrae?" he asked in his touchingly naïve voice.

She took a few moments to make a coherent sentence. "I had a nightmare."

"Was it about the scary man that came here yesterday?" he asked. "Aunt Daydrin says that he used his magic to make you scared. It wasn't real." He said this with such confidence that Sabrae almost believed him, until she felt Kitty's pulsing heat in her side.

_It was real, Sparrow, but I did not warn you. I apologize._

Somehow, Kitty's very presence seemed to exclude calm, and soon her eyes dried, her coughing sobs reduced to hitched breathing. "Tristan," she whispered, struck by a sudden desire. "Remember Haku? Your imaginary friend?"

"He's not imaginary, he's _invisible,_" Tristan scolded her. "He can hear you, don't you Haku?"

"I have invisible friends, too," Sabrae whispered. "Except nobody can see them except for me. They're dead people—they come to play with me. The big man brought scaryghosts with him. That's why I started screaming."

"You can see ghosts?" he breathed. "Cool!"

"It is," she said. "They're really nice and I can talk to them and everything."

"Is the house haunted?" he asked brightly.

Sabrae nodded against the pillow. "There's a really pretty woman in dad's study, but she's really strict and she doesn't like me fighting very much. And granny comes every night and tells me bedtime stories, and sometimes she brings a friend for me to play with. And there's a lot of dogs and cats nobody ever sees in the backyard, and a really friendly kitty-cat telthor."

"What's a telthor?" he asked.

"A telthor is a dead person reincarnated into a spirit-body that was most like them," Sabrae explained, surprised by how smart she sounded to herself. "And they talk just like people do."

"Why can't I see ghosts?" Tristan demanded.

She shook her head. "I don't know," she said brokenly. "I wish you could. You'd have so many friends to play with when I leave."

"But you're not leaving," Tristan insisted. "You're staying here forever."

_I just have a feeling that Master Fully isn't done with me yet, _she thought privately. Instead, she said, "What happened after he touched me?"

"He and daddy talked for a really long time. Daddy looked mad."

_Your father and your aunt know your abilities now. I'm assuming your mother does as well._

"What did he and daddy say?" she asked.

"They wouldn't tell me."

_You'll be offered the chance to control your powers in a Nighthawk training program outside of town with thirty other students._

"A Nighthawk?" she asked outloud, her voice barely audible even to her. Nighthawks were _awesome_, always going out to save the country from the bad people that liked to invade it. They were up _there_, at the top of the line next to the Neverwinter Nine and Lord Nasher. She thought of the man again, in a new light…

_So all those people he killed,_ she thought,_ all the scars… they were all… bad people?_

Heat flooded her cheeks. She'd thought a _Nighthawk_ would kill her. She'd made a scene so bad in front of her family and Master Fully that it must have screwed up her chances for life.

She could imagine herself in the black Nighthawk robes, fighting crime and meeting handsome men, becoming a renowned woman throughout the land. She'd fight trolls with her bare hands, kill giant alligators with her _teeth._ She'd save Lord Nasher's life and be his closest advisor…

It sent a thrill through her body. _They were thinking of taking _me_ into the Nighthawks!_ She yelled inwardly.

_Will you accept their offer?_ Kitty asked.

She didn't even think. "Yeah," she said, oblivious to her brother in her arms. "I want to go."

Kitty gave her a long, sad look. His head drooped slightly, his body seemingly suddenly to diminish in size. _So be it._

"Why're you sad?" she asked. He shouldn't be sad. It wasn't right.

"Sabrae, who are you talking to?" Tristan asked, gripping tight on to her arm. "Is there another ghost?"

Kitty dropped on all fours against Sabrae's ribcage, casting a warm blue glow over her clothing. _How can Tristan _not_ see that?_ She wondered. "Can you leave for a moment?" she asked. "I… need to get dressed."

"But you already are!" he complained.

"I wore this yesterday—mom will throw a fit if I don't change."

"Momma's not here," he said stubbornly. "It's just dad and the scary man. I don't want to go out there."

She deliberated on the spot for a moment—she needed to talk to Kitty alone, but Tristan didn't want to leave because the man scared him. "It's okay," she said. "He won't hurt you. He's a Nighthawk."

"But he hurt _you!"_ Tristan cried. "What if he hurts me, too?"

"I…"

_He will not. The boy cannot feel the spirits, remember?_

"You won't get hurt," Sabrae assured him. "Will you trust me? I haven't lied to you yet."

"_Valin_ has," he muttered darkly.

"Just go, Tristan. _Please._"

He set his jaw stubbornly. "No."

Sabrae hissed in frustration. "If there's ever a more _thick-headed_ brother, you're it. Can you wait outside the door while I get dressed, then?"

He ripped open the covers, exposing her eyes to the bright sunlight outside. She groaned, squeezing them shut. "Call me as _soon_ as you're done," Tristan said, jumping off the bed. He ran for the door and closed it behind him—the sound echoed in her head like a thousand drums.

She waited three seconds, then turned to Kitty. "Why're you so sad?" she asked. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

Kitty only looked at her skeptically and began licking a paw.

"Come on," Sabrae begged. "I don't want to see you sad."

_And I never wanted to leave this house,_ Kitty retorted. _And now you're dragging me along for some god-awful _Nighthawk_ training._

"Oh, I'd never drag you anywhere if you didn't want to," Sabrae exclaimed. "You can stay here if you want. I'll come visit whenever I can, I promise—"

_You are the first person to talk to me in one-hundred and twenty-five years,_ Kitty replied. _If you think that I will let you go this easily, then you are wrong._

"Then… why are you so sad? We'll come back to the house, won't we?"

_I… think. Ask when you go out there. Speaking of which, you must get dressed else Little Sparrow will come in again._

"Oops." Squinting in the bright light, Sabrae scrambled out of bed. She hurried to her bureau and pulled out a faded crème-colored shirt. As she pulled it over her head, she said, "Does the Master Nighthawk think I'm scared because I fainted?" she asked.

Kitty jumped an impressive five-foot distance from the middle of her bed to the end of the bureau, landing without a sound—on this plane or any other—and with a grace that surprised even Sabrae, who was used to it. _He is concerned about your abilities to block out the physical and mental pain of the shades. They have an annoying habit of showing people their last moments, and you had a large dose of it._

"Why do they hang around him like that?" she wondered.

_An enchantment of some sort. I cannot tell._

She grimaced, remembering the pain. "I'm gonna feel all that again, aren't I?"

_If you take Nighthawk training, then you will see a _lot_ more._

"What do you have against the Nighthawks anyway?"

_Wards._ The cat bristled. _And their _ghost lights._ It upsets my essence, even though I am no true ghost._

"You're a telthor, not a ghost. It won't keep you out, will it?" She heard her voice rising pitch, and hastily lowered it. "Will it?"

_No. But it will keep the shades out._

She closed her eyes in relief. She was shaking—not from fear, but from the _excitement. _She was going to be in the _Nighthawks!_ "What else can get past ghost lights?" she asked.

_Telthors, mainly, and spirit essences. Elementals._

"Is that all?"

_It will not repel a physical attack,_ Kitty warned.

"I'll miss granny," she muttered. "I wonder how long he'll give us so I can say goodbye."

_I do not know._

"Sabrae?" Tristan whispered through a crack in the door. "Are you done yet?"

Kitty nodded.

"Yeah, just brushing my hair real quick," she called. She took the brush and ran it through her hair, and noticed how violently her hands were shaking._ Will he even take me after what I did? Can I stand being next to him?_

Behind her, the door slip open and Tristan came back on. "Are you going to see him again?" he asked.

"I have to."

"Are you going to get sick again?"

She shuddered. "I don't know."

"Haku says you won't," he said confidently. "What do the ghosts say?"

"They're telling me to see him, too."

"Okay. 'Bye!"

She frowned. "Where're you going?"

He stuck his chin out defiantly. "Daddy's study."

"Don't _touch_ anything," she warned.

"Okay, I will."

She turned back around to scold him, but he'd already disappeared out the door. Sabrae held out her arms, and Kitty came and sat in the palms of her hands. "You'll help me, right?" she whispered.

The cat rolled it's eyes and climbed up on to her shoulder.

"I'll try not to move too fast," she said. "If you're gonna fall, warn me." She fixed her long mahogany brown hair into a side ponytail on the opposite shoulder, and, heart pounding, tiptoed out of the room.

The house looked exactly the same as it always did on sunny summer days—light streaming through high windows, wood surfaces recently dusted, floors scrubbed to a sheen. Beside her room were two other doors—Tristan's room, and then Valin's. Kane, her oldest brother serving under Aunt Daydrin, used to share Tristan's room because back then he was only a baby and could take care of him almost better than mom and dad could. For one brief moment, Sabrae wished Kane was with her now. Big brothers always knew how to make her do something.

She wished Valin was with her, but he had a job as a barkeep and he couldn't miss it unless he wanted to get fired. Even though she didn't _want_ him to be jobless, she wished, somehow, he were here with her, urging her on.

But she had somebody else for that.

"You never told me your name," Sabrae muttered.

_I never thought this would happen._

"Will you tell me? Please?"

Maybe the telthor had some sort of idea just how fragile and close to breaking she was right now—the weight of the spirits in the room over were already pressing in on her mind, only a little, but enough to realize the true danger she was in if Master Fuller touched her again. Or maybe he was tired of hiding it. Who really knew, after all?

_My name is Engel._

"I like that name," she whispered. "It sounds like 'angel.' Were you an aasimar?"

_If you get through this, I might tell you. I can hear their screaming from here._

She nodded. "Deal." With Engel securely on her shoulder, she walked, carefully as possible, to where the voices sounded loudest—the kitchen. Among the dead voices, Sabrae could hear two real ones that seemed to overpower the rest. Dad and the Master. They were talking about the prudence of putting hot peppers on military field rations.

Their backs were to her as she entered—they were huddled over the fire, and Master Fuller puffed on a pipe. The faint mist of dead people still surrounded him, and now she was scared for an entirely different reason: those were _bad_ people that hurt and killed and slaughtered. How could she ever hope to talk with them in the background?

Unheard on the Physical Plane, Engel hissed, and from the shadowy corners of the room stood granny with her favorite meat cleaver, and the pretty, motherly woman in dad's study that hated women fighting. Sabrae distantly wondered what Tristan was doing in dad's study, and if he was trying to talk to the dead woman. Sabrae abruptly made up her mind: if she had to leave, she'd ask the woman to play with Tristan. She'd figure out something.

Granny waved her hand and smiled at Sabrae before walking right next to Master Fuller—how could he _not _see her??—and speak in a harsh, low voice to quiet for her to hear. The pretty woman stood behind her shoulder, looking more like added backup than anything.

_What are you doing?_ Engel asked.

The pretty woman turned and said, _We are more powerful than they are—_we_ were not killed in petty wars. They will hear us._

Even as she said it, the room grew deathly silent—Master Fuller and dad still talked, but all the other noises had muted, somehow, as if behind a thick wall. Engel let out what sounded like a snort and said, _Teach me that one day. Maybe I can get the Sparrow to shut it._

She was about to tell him to mind his words when he's balancing on an easily rotatable part of her body, but just then, Master Fuller turned around, propelled by some hunter's instinct to check behind him. She looked into his green eyes, scared stiff, and took one hesitant step towards him.

"Don't do anything that will hurt you," he cautioned. "Stop, please."

She shook her head and kept going. She shoved her shaking hands into her pockets and sat crosslegged on the floor next to him. Engel jumped off her shoulder and crawled on to her lap. "What about the people that don't like spicy food?" she asked, keeping her eyes averted and staring straight ahead into the fire. "Momma says if they eat too many peppers their lungs explode."

She could feel Master Fuller's intense gaze on her, and finally worked up the guts to turn her head around to look him straight in the eyes. She realized for once that they were an unnatural shade of green—bright, flickering in the firelight, and pale. She felt her breath come out in a small gust as she looked into those eyes. The first thing that really hit her was how _old_ he seemed to look. His entire body seemed… fuzzy, somehow. As if he was half a ghost. Her Aunt Daydrin had that same, intense look on her face yesterday, she remembered distantly.

And then he smiled, and the spell was broken. "Too many actually kills anybody, but most people know when to stop."

"Oh…" She looked away quickly, her hands stroking Engel's fur. She was so preoccupied in her thoughts that she didn't notice Fuller's eyes glance at her hands, then at her face. "I'm… sorry for yesterday," she said finally. "I shouldn't have screamed."

"What can you see?" Fuller whispered.

"I saw you," she muttered, heat coming to her cheeks. "And I saw every person you've ever killed. They… swirled around you. They screamed at me, that you were going to… going to _kill_ us. It hurt my head. And then you _touched_ me…"

Fuller was already shifting away. "It's okay, I won't touch you again. I promise."

"No, you can now," she said. She looked down at Engel. "Can I?"

Engel threw a glance at granny, and then he bobbed his head in a nod. _Careful. I don't know the sideeffects._

"Engel says I can," she said. "But he doesn't know what'll happen if I do."

"No experiments," dad said harshly. "Sabrae, don't, please."

"It's fine, dad," she said. She slipped her hand foreword, her skin grazing Fuller's. His felt like a telthor's body did—warm, and smooth. She pressed her fingers down harder on his skin, more than aware that her hand was within the mist of spirits surrounding him, breaking apart their faces like mist. Fuller grabbed her extended hand and held it like dad did, his eyes intent on her face. Finally, his intense expression melted into a relieved grin. "See?"

"Then what happened yesterday?" her dad asked. "Why did you just—"

"Because then I think I was inviting them to touch my mind… I thought you were a bad guy once I saw them, and I wanted them to show me how bad you were. But now it's different—they don't bother me anymore if I don't let them in."

It was a startling discovery, especially when she figured out it was true. If she didn't _want_ to see them because they were bad, the mist faded away—not all the way, but enough for her to see in clearer detail. She wondered that, if they were talking, their voices would fade away, too.

"Smart," Fuller muttered. "And very mature for your age."

Sabrae closed her eyes, struggling to remember bits and pieces of before her meeting with Fuller. "Aunt Daydrin said you had questions."

He nodded. "A few, but I think you answered half of them yesterday."

"Can you ask me the rest?"

He nodded, then pointed to Engel. "Is that something in your lap?" At her nod, he continued, "What is it?"

"A telthor named Engel. I love him. He calls me Sparrow."

_Sparrow… Sparrow you are, but food for hawks you'll become._

Fuller nodded, as if this all made perfect sense in the world. "Why can't I see him?"

"Because it's only me—"

He was already shaking his head. "Telthors can be seen by those they want—they can attack and kill as easily as a normal animal."

She frowned, and looked down at her cat's innocent face. "Why can't he see you?"

_I was killed in Shadow Neverwinter mid-transit on the way home, but don't tell him that. Half of my essence is still there._

"He went to another Plane and died there mid—mid-something. Mid-transit."

"What Plane?" Fuller asked eagerly.

_None of your business._

"He says he'd rather keep that to himself, thanks. What does mid-transit mean?"

"It means the middle of your journey," dad said. "Sabrae, why didn't you _tell _us…?"

She shrugged, embarrassed. "My reasons were my own," she said quietly, quoting a favorite saying of Kane's.

"I guess you know I'm not a real school teacher, don't you?" Fuller asked before dad could interrupt.

"Everybody here is my friend," she said carefully. "I knew why you were here as soon as I woke up."

"So I guess the question is… do you accept?"

"Where's my mom?"

"There was an incident next door last night. Your Aunt Daydrin and Valin are there, and your mother's gone to buy more bandages."

"Is Valin hurt?" she asked sharply.

"No," he assured her. "They're just waiting for the Healer to finish up."

"What happened?"

Unexpectantly, it was Engel who spoke. _Let it be._

"Just let it be," Fuller said. "Your family isn't hurt—I can hear them from here." He tapped his ears. "A bonus."

She closed her eyes and calmed herself down. "I want to join the Nighthawks," she said slowly. "I _really_ do, but do we even have the _money?_"

"It's free, Sabrae honey," dad said. He took her by the shoulders, twisting her around so she could look into his eyes. Somehow, it didn't seem to have the same effect after looking into Master Fuller's. She wondered if all Nighthawks looked the same way. "You don't have to make a choice _right now._ You can wait a bit…"

"What do you think I should do?" she asked quietly. Master Fuller turned his back on them, giving them the illusion of private time. Engel stayed where he was, but granny and the other lady disappeared into the shadows once more. Dad was silent for a whole fifteen seconds, his face tight. "Dad?"

"Honey… I think you should do what you want to do."

"Do you mean it?" she asked, her voice rising an octave in excitement. She threw her arms around her father, and he hugged her to his chest. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Are you sure about this?" Master Fuller asked, his back still turned. "Our path isn't an easy one. I don't want to rip you away from your family before your time."

"The stories always said that the people who're asked are asked because the Prophets know they have a role," she said passionately. "You're asking me, so that means I must have a role here somewhere, and nobody's gonna fill it up if I don't accept _now._ And besides, if I said no Kane and Valin would—"

"You are _sure?_" Then he turned around to look at her, and she saw ages and centuries of sadness etched upon his hard, stone face. "Half do not survive the training."

She shrugged. "Then I'll just be on the winning half."

--

Fuller had to admit, her passion was admirable. Her arguments, for a seven-year-old, were clear and concise, so much like an adult's that once he did a double-take in surprise. Most of the Nighthawk initiates were either average boys, and as far as he knew there was only one other female Nighthawk in the training program—and only one in the field as well, but she'd left the service years ago to pursue another lifestyle. And honestly, sometimes he couldn't blame her.

It was actually a shock to see she still lived in Neverwinter—she seemed like a wandering soul, but he guessed she was happier with a family. Happier than he had been.

_The stories always said that the people who're asked are asked because the Prophets know they have a role! You're asking me, so that means I must have a role here somewhere, and nobody's gonna fill it up if I don't accept _now_._

Sabrae had no idea what type of role she was going to be filling up in the Nighthawks, and thanks to the Prophets, he did. He looked at her face now, chocolate eyes somehow brighter with her heated speech, and suddenly wished it had been someone else—anyone else—than the child before him.

_And I saw every person you've ever killed. They… swirled around you. They screamed at me, that you were going to… going to _kill_ us. It hurt my head. And then you _touched_ me…_

He remembered it—too vividly. That terrified little girl s nothing compared to the brave one that took the chance with him today. She hadn't paid for it like he'd thought she would. There was no seizure, no screaming… and when she touched him, a wave of sadness had filled his heart, as if she were transferring a lifetime's worth of emotions into him in one shot.

Should he risk her? Bring her to the training facility? She'd be four months behind the others, and she'd have to catch up… Team Three seemed to be advancing the most quickly, so maybe he could put her in there and entrust her to Tallow or Jae.

The two instructors there, Masters Honura and the water genasi Ceetos, would welcome her with open arms if she performed satisfactory. He'd explained all of this to her father, of course, but her father made no mention of it, not even when they retreated into his study so he could take a nap on the couch. The just worked on the formation of an actual fist, and how to kick right. Fuller allowed himself a small smile as he listened to the two with his advanced hearing—the mess a punch or a kick up was embarrassing, Fuller knew. At least her father was teaching her the essentials.

He was _nearly_ asleep when Besany Telcho walked in the door. She caught sight of him on the couch and moved slowly past him and towards the study. The normal questions passed between Sabrae and her mother—why didn't you tell her, why this happened, et cetera. After a while, it was pretty pathetic to listen to, and Sabrae started to get edgy.

"Mom, I already told you, Engel's the only telthor in the house," she was saying.

"Don't 'I told you, mom' to me, missy," Besany snapped. "If you told us sooner we could've hidden you away from those Nighthawk _bastards…_"

"Besany…" Robert was saying warningly.

_No, let her continue,_ Fuller thought. It was always interesting to see the public's opinions on his kind.

She puffed out a breath. "I'm sorry, but I just don't like this. Sabrae, stay here with us where it's _safe…_"

"No, mom, I'm going with Master Fuller," Sabrae said defiantly. "I _want_ to be a Nighthawk."

"You only _think_ you do," Besany said with false reasonableness. "You're not even ten years old yet, you don't know what you want."

"Are you saying I can't go?" Sabrae whispered. "Mom, that's _not fair!"_

"If you think I'm going to let you run out there and die, then you have another thing _coming—_"

"I can make my own decisions!" Sabrae exclaimed. "Maybe you're just too old to know what I want."

Silence. Then Besany, her voice rolling like thunder: "Don't you _dare_ talk to me like that, young lady."

"Then don't talk to me like that. Valin says it's hypocritical. I'm going, mom. That's it. It's my choice."

"Says the girl that sees _dead people_ in her room—"

"Says the one that listens," Robert cut in. "Besany, you can't win this one. She's determined."

"Robert, a seven-year-old girl doesn't have the _maturity_ to make this type of descision!"

"I think Sabrae is very mature for her age—"

"She's _seven years old!_"

"And I'm five-hundred plus," Fuller muttered.

"Bess…"

"She's not going and that is _final._"

No, it wasn't. Once Sabrae said yes and _meant it, _then she was free of any paternal binding relationship she had. Her father had understood that. Her mother, obviously, was not so self-aware. _You're only pushing your daughter away from you, _he thought.

Somewhere, a door slammed. Then soft footsteps, almost too quiet for him to hear, padded their way towards the couch. Sabrae's little brother Tristan poked his shoulder with one had. "Mister Nighthawk?" he whispered. "Mister Nighthawk?"

Fuller's eyes fluttered open. He smile at the child. "Hey."

"My brother Valin says that people die when they're learning to be a Master," Tristan said simply. "Can you make sure Sabrae doesn't die?"

Fuller nodded. "I won't guarantee anything, little man, but I'll try my best, okay?"

Tristan nodded and handed him a small stuffed bear. It was missing an eye, and the ear seemed to be chewed off, but from the way Tristan touched it Fuller knew right away that the little boy was giving him a real important part of his life. Then he ran off, leaving Fuller, Immortal Nighthawk, man of no regret, staring at it, confused.

--

Two days after Sabrae accepted, Master Fuller was heading off—with or without her. Early in the morning, he tiptoed to where he guessed Sabrae's room was and entered. She lay in her bed, awake and staring at the ceiling. Tears were running down the sides of her face. "Is it time to go?" she asked.

He nodded. "Goodbyes only make things harder," he told her softly. "Are you coming?"

She let out a long, shaky breath, and nodded. "I'll be able to come back, right?" she asked.

"Every weekend. I promise you that."

She wiggled out of her covers, her hands fluttering over an invisible object that had to be the telthor, Engel. He noticed she was already dressed, only missing her travel boots. "Can you write a note for me?" she whispered.

He nodded, placing a folded piece of parchment on her bed. "I knew you'd be coming."

"The Prophets?" she asked.

He nodded. "How did you know?"

"Because every time we said it, you got all sad. You don't want me coming."

"No," he hastened to assure her. "I do. But when you've lived as long as I have… to see another generation you know will die before you do is unsettling."

She nodded, and said nothing more. She touched his hand once, as if to reassure herself her barriers were still in place, then slung a bag over her shoulders, presumably carrying all of her clothing and items dear to her. She held out her arms to an invisible presence—the cat—and then drew them tighter, as if she were carrying it now. "Does everybody else there know what I can do?" she asked as they left by the front door.

He only gave her a sidelong glance and shrugged. "They will soon."

"How long's the walk?"

"Walking? We're riding, little Sparrow. We're going to ride like the wind."

"And cut off their heads," she finished with a giggle.


	6. Daughter and Father

**Chapter 6**

_One never knows what each day is going to bring. The important_ _thing is to be open and ready for it._ **; Lord Nasher**

**--**

**Present day, five hours post-Incursion: West Harbor**

Daeghun met them near the house. It was still night out, but the sky was slowly if not surely lightening up. Ny had stayed up the last two nights—the night before the Fair, and the night defending the village—and it was beginning to wear her nerves thin. The adrenaline rush had worn off less than two hours ago: now it was just a battle to stay on her feet long enough to finish her 'errand'

Webb Mossfield's appearance didn't seem to surprise Daeghun—in fact, he only looked at her lifelong enemy fleetingly before turning to face her square in the eye. She nodded at his unspoken question.

He didn't say, _I'm glad you're okay_. He didn't say, _Are you well?_ He didn't say, _I was so worried about you._

All he said was, "So you've returned," with not an ounce of relief apparent in his inflectionless voice. "And you've brought it with you. Good."

"That's all you have to say?" Bevil glowered at her father, face flushed with anger apparent even when the dwindling moonlight. "I almost died out there!"

Daeghun fixed Bevil with an even look that was just as scary as Aren beside her. "If I did not believe you could handle the task, I would have sent another."

"Yeah, well, you weren't the one out there in the swamp being attacked by lizardfolk," he retorted.

"No, I was here attending to the wounded, Bevil—now find Merring and do the same." Daeghun's tone grew slightly more clipped with each passing word, and for the first time Ny saw the bags under his eyes. She wondered at the last time he'd slept—probably a lot longer than she had. He wasn't the one sent on a suicide mission.

_Dog—who eats dog?_

Bevil threw Ny an indignant look. "I can't imagine how you put up with him. No wonder you avoid him."

"Fucking elves are all the same," Webb muttered darkly. "Learn, Starling."

"Go on ahead, guys, I'll catch up with you in a second," Ny said, ignoring Webb's latest jab. "Get yourselves cleaned up."

Bevil was only too happy to slump off towards his house near the parade grounds, taking a roundabout route behind the houses to avoid being noticed by the others still in the center of the village. "You, too, Mossfield," she said, gesturing with her fingers towards the general direction of his home.

"I'd rather stay, thanks."

"I'll fill you in later."

"You'll _edit_."

"Only the gooey sentimental stuff your brain can't comprehend, Mossfield. Go make sure Inu's okay."

He gave her a meaningful look as he departed. Crap, that had almost been too easy. Apparently, he needed sleep and family just as much as she did at the moment—not that she'd get much of the latter, anyway.

Daeghun waited until Webb was a respectful distance away before saying, "Now for the shard, let me see it." Daeghun held out his hand expectantly.

"You know that was no way to treat Bevil," she reprimanded.

_I can't imagine how you put up with him. No wonder you avoid him._ Yeah, that was the truth, and she didn't have enough energy to be embarrassed by the fact. Years of pretending her foster father was a Knight on a secret mission had passed years ago.

"Our talk is for our ears alone," Daeghun said stiffly. "Bevil has served his purpose, and does not need to be troubled any further. He has his uses, but it's not wise to depend on somebody of Starling blood for too long—also, his complaining tires me and will not serve you where you are bound. I'm also interested in why you felt it prudent to bring Mossfield along while he should still be mending under Brother Merring's care."

Somewhere in there was an accusation, and Ny was only too happy to meet it with another.

"If you really thought that me and Bevil could take on the lizardlings alone, you're sadly mistaken." As she spoke, she dug through her pack. She fished out the shard and tossed it to him. He caught it with the dexterity born of a natural hunter. "Tell me more about the ruins," she said, as if bartering with an informant in Neverwinter City—and that was exactly how it felt like.

_Why can't we be a normal family? I _hate_ him!_

"Many such ruins like within the Mere—and beneath it." Daeghun paused, hefting the shard in his hand as if he was weighing gold. "They are of ancient Illefarn, an empire once forged from the alliance of dwarves and elves. All that remains of their ruins, and little else, and their empire lives only in history books and stories."

"Mmhmm… so does that pass your inspection?" She gestured towards the shard.

He nodded absentmindedly, and handed it back to her, much to her confusion. Didn't he want it? "The shard is one of a pair. Both were found after the battle that destroyed West Harbor long ago. My half-brother, Duncan, and I asked a mage in Neverwinter to examine the shards for enchantments, but he found nothing except a faint magical aura, a residue of the battle. So I kept the shard, and the other I gave to Duncan. Not long after I returned I sealed in away in the ruins."

Ny lost him at 'Duncan.' She frowned, trying to grasp her head over the seemingly unimportant detail he'd so elegantly thrown into the conversation. _I don't remember anything about Duncan. He never told me._ "I have an uncle?" she asked, voice low and threatening. "And you were going to tell me this when, exactly?"

Daeghun only shrugged, as if this minor detail was barely worth speaking about. But it was. Ny could see it from the look in his eye. "So to speak. It would be more appropriate to say that I have a half-brother… Duncan, like Bevil, has many faults that would make it wise not to rely on him or call him kin."

"And you're not going to say any more about him than necessary, are you?"

He nodded.

Ny felt her face prick with heat. _Focus on the mission. Focus, focus, focus. _She pulled away, entering her house and crossing towards the fireplace. It was cold outside, and the fire, thankfully, was on._ I could go to sleep here_, she thought. She was passed being so tired she felt awake—now it was pure grogginess that demanded instant satisfaction. "How long ago was the battle fought?" she asked

The voice came from her right—he'd taken a seat at his desk and was busy rummaging through its' contents. "It was long ago—and the battle did not concern West Harbor, but the village was caught up in it, like many such villages in the Mere of Dead Men. We knew little about what had sparked the conflict. Demons were involved, led by a warlock with great power—we only knew his as the King of Shadows. The forces of Neverwinter attempted to drive the demons back. Many villagers fled, some taking the road, others wading into the swamp, anything to escape the battle. There was an explosion—pure and white—then nothing more."

Ny fingered the shard in her grip, studying the way the light played across the surface. When the fire reflected off of it, it sent dizzying sparkles of light around the wooden home. "I can feel magic from this," she said softly. "Strong magic. I don't feel so… tired, when I hold it." She could feel the shard's small thrum of elemental energy, all cooped up inside. She wondered if Daeghun had felt it, too.

"Strange," he noted. "Perhaps the attack awakened it. If so, then a second look at these shards would yield different results. But such divinations would be beyond anyone here in West Harbor, including Tarmas."

"I think Tarmas is more than he seems," she defended. "Amie did, too." No answer. Obviously, he was waiting for her to get to the _point._ "Why do you think those things were looking for this? It doesn't seem very special."

At this, Daeghun sighed, the first real emotion he had shown since she'd turned up. "That is the only reason I can think of why they came. Am I certain? No, but my instincts tell me they are looking for it."

"Maybe you're instincts are wrong."

"It is the only thing of substance in this village that would cause them to tear it apart as they did—they were not looking for gold, or valuables—nor did they seem to care about us unless we got in their way."

"So you put it into the ruins. You didn't think they'd look for it in a lizardling infested swamp," she said evenly. "You didn't think the lizardlings would force the 'Box of the Stone God' open."

"I could not bring myself to cast it away. Yet at the same time, I did not wish to keep it close." His voice was hoarse. Perhaps he'd passed his two-word-a-month count. He'd have to shut up for years if he was going to average it out again. "You are too young to remember what occurred, I know—but the battle was a terrible one. And the shard, it reminds me too much of that night."

They sat in not-so-companionable silence for a while. Ny stretched herself out comfortably on the floor, but she couldn't go to sleep, not with the next question pressing her mind—the question that would, invariably, send her out on another errand. She hoped he'd let her sleep, first… or do it himself, the swine. "So what now?" she muttered. "You know, a 'thank you' wouldn't be out of place in this conversation."

It was ages before he answered. Maybe he'd gone to sleep. She peeked just to check—he sat there, holding a small piece of parchment paper in his hand, looking at her just as intently as Webb had when he'd volunteered for errand boy duty. "I need you to go to the city of Neverwinter." Her jaw dropped. "Find my half-brother, Duncan, retrieve the second shard, and take it to a mage you can both trust. Duncan owns an inn called The Sunken Flagon. Not the most… reputable place, but safe enough."

Her words came through barely-moving lips. "What about Bevil?"

He shook his head. "No. I know you value him as a friend, but he will be of no help outside West Harbor. He would only slow you down." At her stiff silence, he added, "Bevil is made for… simpler things."

"You know, you should be respectful," she snapped, her voice increasing volume. "He helped me back there. I don't care _what_ problem you have with him—you've only been mean and spiteful towards him for putting his life on the line for _me._"

Daeghun inclined his head politely. "Very well. Let us waste no more time discussing your friend. If you have other questions, ask them."

Ny glared, unwillingly turning her mind to more urgent problems. _Sorry, Bev._ It didn't take long for her to think up one. "What if those things track me down?" she muttered.

"Possible. But this village cannot shelter you or survive another attack. On the road, moving, you have a chance. Once you reach Neverinter, it may prove to be more difficult for them to attack you."

"That makes me feel better."

"It should."

"Why don't we just dump the shard and save ourselves the trouble?"

Daeghun's slight pause was enough for her to realize he wasn't telling her everything. She felt as if another cornerstone of her trust had evaporated with Amie's charred remains. She swallowed the lump in her throat, unwilling to let the frustrated tears take hold. "The… problem is more complicated than that," Daeghun said slowly. "If we give them the shard, I doubt it will keep them from believing the second one lies here as well." And the last part was so quiet, she barely heard it. "Or others."

"So there's others_." Yay. More trips to swamp ruins. Happy birthday, Ny._ She wondered if it was possible to slit your own throat—that'd be a nice opportunity right now, except she was too tired to reach for the dagger on her belt.

"We only found two," he said. "It is possible there were others, scattered into the swamp, or taken away—or have met other ends."

Ny sighed, a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to stretch on for two whole seconds. "What else aren't you telling me, Daeghun?" she asked quietly.

"There are many things I've chosen not to tell you," he said quietly, "and that is because they are not relevant. Perhaps if you were to question less and heed my words, it would prevent you from becoming confused."

"Even if what you choose not to tell me can mean the difference between my life and my death?"

It was a long time before Daeghun answered.

"Head to the small port town of Highcliff when you are free of the swamp," he said simply, avoiding the question. "There, seek passage on a ship to Neverwinter. The beasts that attacked us will leave West Harbor once they realize their quarry has fled. If all goes well, you should be in Neverwinter before they find your trail."

"That last time you kept knowledge from me—from the town—my best friend was killed," Ny said softly, a dangerous edge to her voice. She looked back at Daeghun. "And now my other best friend is supposed to stay here with a doomed town while you run around pulling people's strings. I get it now." With some difficulty, she stood. "If something happens to Bevil, I'm going to hold you personally responsible."

Daeghun's face gave nothing away—except for the rapid blinking, a sure sign of stress. At least, she hoped so. "Say your farewells before you depart," he said. "I let some of the others know you are leaving—but not the why. Steel yourself for danger."

"Why aren't you taking it?" Ny asked. "If it's so… simple."

"I was raised amongst the wild elves and for all my years amongst the race of men, they make little sense to me. Even though you are not one of them—you understand them better than I. I have done all I can to hide your presence. If those beasts come again, West Harbor will need me."

_And they'll need me, too_, she thought sadly. "So… that's your farewell then, I suppose." I shouldn't be surprised.

"Perhaps one day we will speak again and gain an understanding of each other," he said, even quieter than before.

"I'll go in the morning," she said stiffly. "I need a sleep." Shoulders tense, fists at her sides, she walked up the small stairwell and closed the door behind her, isolating herself from both the fire's warmth and her father's cold calculations.

She slept with the shard clutched to her chest, dreams full of snarling monsters and haughty elves.

--

"So your father's sent you off to Neverwinter…" Bevil pursed his lips, leaning against the giant oak tree in the front of his yard as if that was the only thing keeping him upright. "As if everything that's happened last night isn't enough adventuring for one lifetime. I'm hoping that you'll be back soon enough after you reach the city, but most people who leave West Harbor don't come back."

Ny leaned against him, his arms wrapped around her shoulders in an uncoordinated, affectionate hug. Her pack lay forgotten at their feet. "Screw Daeghun," she said, voice muffled by the inside of his jacket. "Come with me, Bevil."

He chuckled. "Not that I'm not tempted—Amie would certainly have jumped at the chance… but we lost a lot of folks in the attack, Ny. Hopefully your father's right and there will be no more attacks once the shard is gone, but still… the village will need every swordarm it has. As a member of the militia, it is my sworn duty to defend West Harbor. I can't just turn my back on that. You know that."

"I don't want to leave, Bev," she muttered. "I'll miss you guys." She was trembling, and not because of the cold.

"Good luck," he whispered in her ear, bent almost at the waist to reach her. "And if you run across the one that killed Amie, stick a blade through his heart for me. She deserves at least that."

She could hear the villagers working behind her, Pitney Lannon's voice loudest of all among them. They were already beginning to rebuild, a day after the attack. "I told Webb what happened," she said finally. "He says he's coming with me."

"I know, I heard. Can't say I blame him, no matter how much I hate his guts." This was a different Bevil, no longer caught between the fine line of boy and man. She realized she'd never see him as a boy again. "Are you sure you can't stay another day?"

"No, I can't. Maybe a few more hours, but I want to get out of the swamp by nightfall. Daeghun thinks the creatures are camped somewhere in the swamp, so he and Trian are going to go find the closest campsite, to warn the villagers," she replied, naming Daeghun's wolverine familiar. "I guess if Webb gets tired I can coax Aren into letting him ride her or something. She'll be ticked, though."

"Yeah, the mental thing. Really something…" Bevil sounded lost in thought, and she didn't want to intrude. She began listing all the items she'd packed with her, triple-checking her inventory and wondering if there was anything she'd missed…

Healing potions, blankets… machetes, bow and arrows… fifty gold, Aren, bracelets… Damn, what am I missing?

She'd ask Pitney Lannon for an extra beer later for the journey… no, actually, she wouldn't. Better to make the trip as inconspicuous as possible, and Pitney might take offense if she asked for a bottle of his prized beer.

"Don't get hurt, Ny," Bevil whispered in her ear. "I'm going to miss you."

"You're a good man, Bev," she replied, withdrawing just enough from his tight hug to give him a peck on the cheek. "We'll be back. I promise."

She had to leave. Now, before she changed her mind. She withdrew completely from his hug and bent down to pick up her pack to avoid from seeing his eyes. She hated farewells. She kept her head bent as she walked past him, aiming for the Mossfield's home a while away.

"Wait. Ny."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, and turned around. Bevil placed something in her hand, and when she brought it up to look, she smiled. Resting in her palm was the lucky charm Bevil always brought with him, carved in an image of his goddess, Chauntea. "Thanks, Bev. Really." He hadn't parted from it since he was eight—and now he was giving it to her. She felt deeply and emotionally touched by this one gesture that she almost wanted to cry again.

"I'm not giving it to you," he said, looking away just as she was doing. "I want that back. Extended loan, whatever. Two months, and then I'll start charging you."

"That's real thoughtful, Bev. I love it."

He scratched his neck, as if unsure of what to say. "Yeah, well… I think I hear Locke whining in the house… Might as well go feed him and the others, before… I forget."

No matter what Daeghun said, Bevil was not made for simpler things. He was capable of so much more, not half as dense as Daeghun liked to think. She could only hope that her father would recognize his quality. She really hoped he did. "Yeah… Locke's probably having a panic-attack right now, heh." She scratched the back of her neck, uneasy. "Two months. I'll remember that."

"Yeah..."

"I have to go check on Webb, Bev… Be good until I get back. No uncharted swamp explorations without me, got that? I don't give a damn what Daeghun tells you."

He chuckled. Finally, it seemed as though he could take it any more, and he turned around to walk away. "Farewell, Ny."

--

Telling his mom and brother that he was leaving with the elf wasn't as hard as he'd thought it'd be. They were too stunned in grief to actually work it out, or care, not that they'd cared about him much anyway. What Webb really had trouble with was Inu. She folded her arms and gave him the oh-so-familiar _what-the-hell-are-you-thinking _look. "Take me with you," she said.

He hugged her to his chest and stroked her hair, one arm wrapped around her and the other holding his pack firmly in place on his back. "I know you want to come," he said quietly, "but you can't."

"Why? Is the elf your girlfriend, now?"

Webb grimaced. "No, she's still a freak—but she's a freak that needs help, and I don't want Daeghun and Ny doing something the entire village isn't aware of. There has to be another guy in this."

He hadn't told her the route they were taking—up the main road, then to Highcliff to catch the Double Eagle and take it to Neverwinter. He'd only said they were taking the High Road, in case the creatures came back and interrogated the family. Unfathomable as it was, he understood Ny's thought process.

"Yeah," she muttered. "But why you?"

He didn't have an answer for that. Instead, he took out his hunting knife and pressed it into her palms. He'd never let her play with it before—now there was the real possibility he'd need it while he was gone. "Go for the throat," he said. "You're quick, fast…"

She nodded. "Or for the thigh," she whispered, reciting a bit of knowledge that he'd impressed into her all of those long, hard years. Now, they didn't even seem to be enough. "Ugh, you have the worst timing, Webb."

He tried to grin. "Oh, really?"

"I'll keep an eye on Daeghun for you," she said, slipping more into the Inu he knew: the calculated, caring, manipulative little sister he loved with all his heart. "I can be discreet."

"You do that for me, kid," he said, ruffling her hair again.

He left the house the same time Ny was coming down the grassy road—presumably to fetch him. "Ready?" she asked, gesturing to the bag on his back. As if she needed to ask. He noticed that Aren wasn't with her. Against his better judgment, Webb hoped that they'd summon her once out of the village.

Ny looked like hell, eyes red and puffy, like she'd been crying. She was wearing a necklace he'd seen Bevil wear sometimes—a thin black fiber-cord with a wooden figurine of the goddess Chauntea engraved on an oval backdrop, resting delicately between her shoulders as if had always belonged there. He was still tired from the late-night expedition, so he decided not to rib her about her and her boyfriend. "All set, Vollen. Got everything?"

"Yeah. Retta Starling wants us to keep an eye out for Lorne, by the way."

Webb nodded distantly, unsurprised. Bevil's older brother, Lorne, had gone into the Luskan military and was MIA. Too bad. He'd liked the guy, but he'd been missing so long now that Webb hadn't exactly cared much. He was probably dead, and he'd come to terms with it a long time ago.

He sighed, hefted his bag, and closed his eyes to avoid looking at the scene around him. "Let's go, lady. Wasting daylight."

He didn't look back when they left, but the sight of West Harbor, destroyed and halfway burned to the ground, would forever stay in his memory like scar.

--

**Hours before**

Daeghun waited until Ny'ren was asleep before stepping outside, parchment in hand. He broke into a run, dashing across the swampy ground, and lost himself in thought as he began to follow the trail so ingrained in his memory it was like walking home after a trip to Retta Starling's.

He was displeased at Ny'ren's outbursts that night—it surprised that he felt a little temperamental afterwards. She was _exactly_ like her mother—wild, and ferocious when backed into a corner. Her eyes always betrayed her intentions, and Daeghun had come to know his foster daughter so well over the years that he'd been able to predict the way the conversation would go.

It did not mean he enjoyed it.

Daeghun began to run faster. Time meant everything—he wasn't sure how long it would take Robert's daughter or one of her friends to intercept Ny'ren's course, and he needed to give them the best head start possible. With the piece of parchment clutched in his hand, he concentrated on nothing but the whoosh of air going in and out of his lungs, struggling to find a rhythm.

_Perhaps one day we will speak again and gain an understanding of each other._

He didn't know what prompted him to say those words—the last words Ny'ren's father had said to his wife before disappearing into the swamps. Perhaps it was because it captured the same feelings of loss and grief he felt by watching Kya descend into depression… the same feelings he felt now, when his foster-daughter couldn't even find it in her heart to love a cold, heartless bastard like him.

Her eyes were always different. They were the strangest shade of blue with a purple cast to them, which contrasted with her russet skin and dark hair. Her mother's eyes were chocolate brown. Her father's had been moss green. It was a color previously unknown to him—Retta Starling always said Ny'ren was special because of it. Ny'ren loved Retta.

Ten minutes later, he slowed to a fast walk, because he was nearly there.

_She can take care of the shard. She's proved it in the ruins_, Daeghun thought. _But I cannot trust her to follow logic. _He hoped with what little remained of his ashen heart that Robert's daughter was home.

_I may have to call in another favor if this does not work out_, Daeghun thought. He was glad he waited until Ny'ren was asleep—if she knew what he was doing, her imbalanced hormones would send her off the edge… exactly like her mother. And her father. Unwilling to commit with their minds, listening always to their hearts. And hearts were almost always wrong.

He came to a wide clearing, where the Harborman River ran the purest. He knelt behind its banks, his darkvision allowing him to avoid the sitting crocodiles at the edges. He closed his eyes and placed the paper in the river, whispering a prayer to Lifestream.

The water in front of him shimmered, and the moon's light was suddenly amplified in the waves. The parchment disintegrated in miniscule black feathers, forming a circle in the water. Light was amplified through the feathers and concentrated within the circle until it looked like the moon itself was just underwater.

And suddenly, the water within the circle began to rise, a large cylinder looming above him—and then vanished in a poof of mist.

A woman could be seen inside the mist—dressed entirely in black, she looked like a nightmare. She lowered her cowl and the scarf obscuring her mouth, revealing a beautiful face that hadn't diminished with age. As soon as she saw him, her face split into a wide smile. "Daeghun!"

"I need help," he said bluntly. Sabrae's smile disappeared. "Swiftly."


	7. The Weeping Willow Inn

**Chapter 7**

"_I'm used to chasing people. I'm just not used to them chasing _me._ If I ever make Master, I'm going to chase my apprentices all day long just so I feel normal again."_ **; Jaing Rannin on being pursued**

**-**

**The Weeping Willow Inn – 1 day ASI (After Second Incursion)**

"You're kidding me."

"Not my fault." The elf didn't seem as happy about the sleeping arrangements as he was. They sat across from each other in the Weeping Willow Inn a many leagues away from the village—Ny had put foreword a grueling pace he'd struggled to keep up with, but he'd endured the process with stoic silence. His wound had cracked open, and they'd been forced to change the bandaging to prevent infection. It had been their only stop, and when they finally walked into the inn, exhausted with swollen ankles, it was to find that there was only one open room and the bed there was barely big enough for the elf's slim frame. With the light fading fast outside, Webb knew that _one_ of them was going to be sleeping on the floor that night. And no matter his disdain for the elf, she was a lady and all his instincts screamed at him to protect and respect. And because she was vain and unused to jogging this far, she'd accept.

So he was surprised when she didn't. "No," she said when he put foreword the idea. "I'm staying down here with Aren to watch the traffic."

He only asked once more, and she adamantly refused before herding him upstairs and checking his wound. He sat on the edge of the bed, shirt off and staring at the grisly wound on his bare chest via the mirror in the room. "It's healing," he said, surprised. The blood-soaked edges still looked ghastly, but it seemed to have shrunk in size somewhat over the time elapsed since the bandage had been last changed. He looked over at the elf, who was rummaging through her pack for another salve. "Do you know why?"

"Humans have a strong constitution," she said by means of answer, unscrewing the lid off of a wooden cup and sniffing hesitantly at the yellow slosh within. He knew why: that salve was made out of crushed plants and berries, and if it went bad it could screw up the healing process entirely. "That should do it."

She moved towards him with the salve, and he jerked away. "I can do it." She shrugged and handed it to him, feigning indifference, but her violet-blue eyes flickered with some emotion he couldn't read. It was unsettling. As he smeared the yellow paste over the cut, he asked casually, "So'd you put a spell on it or something? The cut?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "No, but I have a theory."

"Oh yeah?"

She only shrugged and looked away. Then she frowned at the pack he had thrown next to the door. She crossed over and examined the contents, then zipped it back up and threw it on the bed, under the covers. "That's important," she scolded. "You shouldn't just leave it lying around like that."

"What's the difference? It's in the room, isn't it?"

She pinched the skin between her eyes and bowed her head. "Just take better care of it," she said.

"Vollen, it's just a _piece of metal._"

"No it's not!" she snapped. Then she opened her eyes, glaring at him with her strange violet-blue orbs. Even as she watched, her expression melted into resigned weariness. She rubbed her temples, muttered something about keeping watch downstairs, and slammed the door behind her.

He dismissed it as PMS, but even with that sour explanation he could still feel the blood boiling in his veins. It wasn't _his_ fault the elf was a temperamental trollup. He hated elves. They bred and spred like vermin, swarming across all of Faerûn, gobbling up villages and forcing other species out—like the humans. Ny'ren knew how to handle herself in a fight, but like all of her kind she was arrogant and self-important. One day, he'd take one of that proud species and make her suffer. He would humiliate, degrade, and punish her. He would _break _her.

He felt his father would have approved.

With that thought in mind, he finished bandaging his wound and blew out the two lit candles in the room. He stumbled to the bed and crawled underneath the covers. The hard pack pressed against his chest, and he threw it to the ground in a huff. After a few minutes with his eyes closed, he couldn't take it anymore and retrieved it.

Fucking elves.

--

_I shouldn't have lost my temper like that._

Ny'ren sat in one of the darker corners downstairs, head in her hands, thinking.

Did Daeghun really think she could do this alone? He hadn't showed the slightest hint he did—in fact, after their conversation when she brought back the shard all he would tell her was to look after herself and not to trust anybody. From the minute changes of expression on his face, she could tell how badly he wanted to go, how he doubted her ability to finish the task.

_So what? So what if he doesn't think I'm up to it?_

She was on the point of going back to West Harbor to fetch Bevil, as she was at least once an hour. But whatever was following them would catch up. She couldn't go meet them by herself, and not even with Webb's help could she prevail.

_He hates me, and he's been complaining all day…_

Her whole reason for not going had evaporated with Webb Mossfield decided to come with her. Her nerves already wearing thin even by herself, she knew she'd end up fighting him if there was another wise-crack. He'd been difficult and dragging his feet all day when all she wanted to do was _run._ Run away from Amie's charred corpse, from Retta Starling's motherly embrace, and Daeghun's calculated plans. Somewhere, in the middle of running _away_ she'd wanted to go back. Traveling the world with Webb Mossfield was different than her original plans. Somehow, it wasn't _right _without Bevil at her side, but she couldn't turn back _now._ She was too deep.

She wondered what Amie would think if she saw her situation now.

There was some sort of commotion at one of the other tables, and a very short man—probably a dwarf, judging by the beard—was downing a mug of ale, then slapped it on the table satisfied-like. One of the humans beside him chugged his down a bit more slowly than the dwarf, and Ny hid a private smile. One of the advices Tarmas the Wizard had imparted on her before her departure was never to challenge a dwarf to a drinking contest. She decided to see how it would play out, if only for entertainment value.

Several patrons were looking over at the contest, and one of the older men close to her snorted to himself. He whistled quietly to get her attention, and jerked his head in their direction. "Ten on the human."

"Dwarf," she said, putting all of her faith in Tarmas' words.

After an undetermined amount of time, the human choked on the ale. The dwarf thumped him on the back a few times, and Ny almost got up to help when the youth suddenly braced his hands on his knees to vomit. The bar lady made a face and waved her hand towards the door. "Get him out of here," she commanded. "Khelgar wins."

The dwarf, Khelgar she presumed, let out a bellow of a laugh. He didn't even look drunk, she noted, just _rowdy._ He jumped off his chair and, looking quite proud of himself, helped his buddies escort the youth outside. The bar lady, grimacing in disgust, poured a bucket of water on the wooden floorboards and took a scrub-brush to it. Ny'ren focused on the dwarf by the doorway, and as if somehow sensing her look, he turned around. "You want to try, lass?" he asked. "A wisp o' the likes o' you might faint at a whiff o' the stuff!"

She shook her head. "No, thanks."

He walked up, hands on his hips. "Aw, c'mon, it'll all be in good fun."

"Um… sorry, but no thanks."

Still in good humor, he hopped on to her chair. She stiffened, gripping the small dagger she'd stuck in her book before setting off. She always sat with her legs curled on the chair with her, so it was easy to reach. The dwarf looked completely at ease, and threw a backwards glance at the drunk and his buddy. "Third one today," he remarked.

She frowned. "So you make drinking people under the table a hobby?" she asked skeptically. _No wonder Tarmas warned me, if this is what all of them are like._

"A hobby, lass?" He turned back to her and gave her a full-toothed smile. She noticed he was missing a front tooth. "If that's what ye call it, then yeah. This ale here is _water_ compared to the ones we brew in the mountains. There's nothing better than a good dwarf beer-drinking contest." He threw one more glance over his shoulder. "Then again, I probably could've asked for better competition…"

She chuckled, not because she felt like doing so but because it was expected and she didn't want to stand out in anybody's mind when she left.

Khelgar leaned back in his new seat, looking way too comfortable to only be a passersby. "So, elf—" She was getting tired of being called that, "—what's your name?"

She said the first thing that came to her lips. "Amie Fern. Yourself?"

"Khelgar Ironfist. I'm surprised ye haven't heard o' me yet. Been making my way throughout the Sword Coast for about a year now. Drinking pups like that under the table, then when things get boring, start up a fight to pass the time. Once he's done regurgitating I'm thinking o' rubbing it in his face a bit."

"I'd almost welcome a fight," she muttered. "My partner and I've walked more than thirty leagues on our way here, and _he _has the bed."

"Are you from Highcliff?" Ny noticed that when he talked, he seemed to vary from a civilized language to dwarvish. He'd slipped out of his 'ye's and was getting back into his 'you's. A man of both worlds, it seemed.

She shook her head. "One of the swamp villages. We're heading to Neverwinter to check up on my uncle." Even now, it gave her a thrill to say it and for it to be true. She had an _uncle,_ and the fact Daeghun didn't like him was a better bonus. Maybe he wasn't as bad as her own foster-father was. She felt her mind stray to the thought of an uncle every few minutes. She wondered what he looked like, what he acted like… Daeghun had called him a 'half-brother' with unmistaken dislike in his voice.

"Me, too. Maybe we'll meet on the road."

She honestly didn't know if she wanted to be walking beside the dwarf or not—he seemed hyperactive, a drunkard, and eager to get in a fight. But she smiled anyway and said, "It'd be nice to have somebody civil to travel with."

"Civil?" Khelgar repeated.

Ny jerked her head towards the rooms above them. "I never said my partner and I were friends. He doesn't like elves."

"Bah, and I don't like humans," he said. "Stink too much and pass gas too loud. I wasn't joking about that drinking game, Amie—elves have a stronger constitution than half the soldier's in Nasher's army, I'm betting."

"I've never tested that before," she said, chuckling. "But I knew you would win. Rumor around my village is that a dwarf could drink a Nighthawk under the table."

"Aye, but could a dwarf drink a dwarf Nighthawk under the table, I wonder?"

"I'm sure there's plenty in Neverwinter." She barked out a laugh at a thought. "We could just go up to Lord Nasher and ask him if we could _borrow_ one…"

Khelgar, either in good spirits because of the victory or likeable by nature, laughed. "Aye, that's a good one, lass. If we ever see him, I'll be sure to ask if only to see his face." They chuckled into silence, then he said, "So what's your real name?"

Surprised, she said, "Ny'ren. How'd you know?"

"Most people with something to hide don't tell it at first, and to be honest, lass, you look like you're hiding something." He took a sip of his drink, leaving her floundering. Then he set it back on the table and said, "Don't worry, I won't go spreading it around."

She glared at him, then decided it wasn't worth it. She shrunk back into her chair and closed her eyes. "My village was attacked," she muttered. "I'm only afraid that the ones who attacked me will try to find me."

He frowned. "What do they look like?"

"Like…" She tried to find the words to describe the bladelings. "Red elves with little spikes all over them. And dueger."

The mention of the sister species brought goosebumps to Khelgar's arms, and he clutched his fists. "Dueger," he spat. "Good-for-nothing scum is what they are. Will do anything for a coin, the _bastards._" He took a deep swig of his ale and made a face. "Tastes just like water, it does," he muttered angrily.

"You should've seen them all fall," Ny said wistfully. "I never killed a person before, but I did a lot of it that night. We managed to capture one of them, then I slit its throat for killing my friend Irine."

"Aye," he said sadly. "It's war that is. Makes us do things we wouldn't normally do. Adrenaline." He snorted. "I hope you don't feel bad about it."

"I feel… sad, actually. Sad that they were so enslaved in their own selfish desires that they would burn down a village for few coin and a helm or two."

"Why are they chasing you?" Khelgar pressed.

She shook her head. "My secret."

Khelger leaned back with a grunt, then shrugged. "You're a strange elf, lass. Wisp o' a thing, sure, but I haven't heard one word about the swamp and the trees so I guess yer okay."

_Don't trust anybody but yourself._ Daeghun's 'words of wisdom' whispered inside her head.

"So why do you need to go to Neverwinter?" Ny asked, struggling to change the subject.

"House o' monks there… a monastery, right? Said they'll take anybody in for fightin' training, just for the asking… what?"

"A monk."

"Yeah?"

"A _dwarven_ monk."

"Ain't stranger than half o' the things I've seen in Faerûn, I'll tell you that."

She conceded the point. "What made you decide?"

He winked. "My secret."

She raised her eyebrows, then snorted. "Sorry I'm not much of a talker," she said. "It's been a very long day."

"Aye, I can imagine. Yer eyes are all sucken-like. When was the last time ye slept?"

Touched—and somewhat disturbed—by the dwarf's concern, she replied, "Two days ago. One night before the attack, a few minutes' rest, then I think I stayed up most of the night during the attack. Slept three hours, and now me and His Royal Headache are here. _He's_ lucky. _He_ gets the bed," she grumbled.

He made a small 'humph' sound in the back of his throat. "That's not a way to treat a fair lass like yerself," he said grumpily.

She shrugged self-consciously. "I insisted… but it's his own fault he got hurt."

"He was walking, weren't he?" the dwarf pointed out.

"Please, I don't like being treated differently because I'm a girl," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I can actually fight better than he can."

"Heh, you're short—like me, but then again all them tree-lovers are short. But you don't look like a fighter… naw, not enough muscle."

She smiled, displaying her pointed teeth. "You don't think?"

He laughed out loud, causing the other patrons to give him second looks. "I like ye," he decreed. "Knew there's a reason I decide to come over here."

"You're not so bad yourself," she said. She looked over at the bar maid, who had finished cleaning and had taken back her position behind the bar. "Ma'am? Two of your strongest."

Khelgar let out a whooping laugh. "Now yer talking my language, elf."

She gave him a false glower. "Not for competition purposes. I don't need a hang over tomorrow. And you can call me Ny. All my friends do." _And some enemies,_ she added to herself, thinking of the man upstairs.

As the bar maid put the two foaming cups of beer on the table, Ny passed her a few gold coins for her troubles and assured her she wasn't stupid enough to challenge Khelgar to a game of constitution. She took a hesitant sip—the bitter, slightly sweet taste of beer flowed past her tongue, and the smell of alcohol hit her like a wall… but after a few sips she realized that Khelgar wasn't joking about it being watered down.

Khelgar set down his half-empty mug with a belch. "So when are you headed out, lass?"

"Tomorrow if I can. I can't exactly go back anymore, can I?"

"Maybe they'll catch up," Khelgar said, an eager glint in his eye that she automatically distrusted. "You said yerself you'd welcome a fight."

"I _would…_" she said hesitantly. "Maybe I'm just a coward. Maybe I want to face them at Fort Locke, where the Greycloaks will help."

"Or here, with a willing dwarf at your side and a couple o' drunks," Khelgar shot back. "Don't know if ye heard, but the Fort's in enough trouble with damned bandits."

"Is that why the patrols stopped?" she asked curiously. The Fort had stopped it's regular patrols along the High Road about a month before, and the roads were as unsafe as ever before. About two weeks ago when the merchant caravans were coming in Pitney Lannon's farm was invaded by lizardlings, and the only reason it wasn't burned to the ground was because a ranger was in the area. And then the attack on West Harbor…

Khelgar shrugged. "I don't know, lass, but…"

She was aware he was talking, but something prevented her from listening. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, and her heart pounded with an unspoken fear. She cast her eyes over the establishment: everything was how it had been before, and the drunks had headed upstairs…

A figure opened the door, swatched in darkness.

She registered something in his hand, a ball-shaped object letting off a faint glow…

"…for all of them, I'd bet. Somebody needs to teach 'em some sense…"

In doubt, Ny tried to speak, but her tongue was furred to the roof of her mouth.

The figure leapt through the door. A bladeling. In its' hands was a bright blue sphere, the size of a large grapefruit. It pulsed with light. Ny could see tiny white objects swirling within it, round and round and round.

"…paying attention?"

The bladeling raised its' arm. The sphere glinted in the firelight.

"_No_!" It was a guttural growl, deep within her throat. She leaned foreword, grabbed Khelgar by the beard, and pulled him out of his seat, over the table and on to the floor. The table fell over, spilling beer on her traveling garments, but at that point she didn't care. She was _not_ going to give way to fracking bladelings again—Amie's face flashed in her mind's eye, urging her foreword.

The blue sphere arced into the air, over the table. To Ny, transfixed by its' movements like a mouse by the swaying of a snake's head, its trajectory seemed to take forever. All sounds ceased in the room, except for a barely discernable fizzing from the sphere—and from the crowd, the gulped, high-pitched beginnings of a baby's crying.

The sphere hit the floorboards, out of her sight thanks to the overturned tables. Then came the tinkle of breaking glass.

And, a split second later, an explosion.

Unseen to her, the trapped elementals inside the sphere, loathing each other's presence, recoiled from each other with savage force. Air, earth, fire, and water: all four kinds exploded from their minute prison at top speed, unleashing chaos in all directions. Many people standing nearby were at one at the same time blown backward, pelted with rocks, lacerated with fire, and deluged with a horizontal column of water. Almost all the company of patrons were scattered on the floor, scattered like ants in the epicenter of the explosion. Crouched behind a table and braced against the wall, Ny was shielded by the brunt of the black, but even so found herself being battered by the table as it rocked in high winds.

The crackle of flames filled the room, but the screams had stopped—there was only the quiet moaning of the guests who had survived. Ny risked a quick look at Khelgar to make sure he was already, then withdrew her two machetes as silently as possible from the sheaths on her hips.

"Find the _Kalach-Cha._" The hiss sent a shiver down her back. "Kill all in your path."

Khelgar, dazed but still alive, looked at her questioningly. Fingers shaking, she put her index to her lips, the universal sign of 'be quiet.' Undoubtedly, their attackers would check the bodies, and, ears straining, she tried to count the number of enemies in the confined space.

There were a lot.

She heard the door leading upstairs open, but it didn't close. _Probably leaving it open so they can escape later,_ she thought. Then it hit her: _Oh, crap, Webb has the shard!_

Footsteps were coming. She gripped her machetes in a reverse-hand position, and tried to steady her erratic heartbeat. Her breath was shaky. Red fingers gripped the table's edge and pulled away. As soon as its head was visible, Khelgar threw the beer cup with surprising accuracy, and she used her free foot as a lever to push off the wall as quick as possible. The bladeling only got a half-hearted defense in before the sharp end of her blade ended all movements together.

And then she got a glimpse of the scene: dueger looting the bodies of the dead, kicking them for fun. Khelgar threw the other beer cup across the room—it hit the furthest one upside the head, and he fell across the edge of a table.

Ny jumped over their own table, suddenly wishing she'd kept her bow with her and not left it upstairs… Her wild, hysteric fear had been replaced by cold cunning—they killed _Amie. _Suddenly, she was in West Harbor again, watching it fall.

And she didn't like it.

"Bevil, watch my back," she snapped at the dwarf, and ran to meet three of them head-on.

--

_It was after the battle. Webb had managed to escape completely unscathed, but Ward had taken a bad slice in the beginning of the battle. And Wyl and Jorun were dead. It was one of his worst nights ever, and he'd had a few growing up with three siblings._

_Inu was probably still in the house. He'd told her specifically to stay with mom. So Webb was walking aimlessly through the ruined village—more than once he saw Ny, or Daeghun, and they always looked deep in thought, like something was bothering them. Everybody else was inside the Cow & Corset. He knew he'd have to go to the lizardling ruins with Bevil and Amie, though, to find something important to Retta Starling, so he went to find Inu and say goodbye because he didn't know if he'd make it back._

_When he entered the house, everything was… different, somehow. There was a lot of blood, too much for one person. But that was normal, wasn't it? Where was Inu?_

_He found Inu in the kitchen. She was on a table just like the ones at the Cow & Corset. She was so drenched in blood that he didn't even recognize her at first. He ran, frustratingly slow, to his sister's side. He tried to take her arm, but he kept slipping, she was so _slippery…

_She didn't wake up when he called for her. She wouldn't wake up ever again. He saw Ny by the kitchen door, a bloody machete in hand. She shrugged as if to say 'not my fault' and began to walk away._

_He tackled her. They fought. And he sliced her open like a pig, but she _wouldn't die._ She stared at him with her violet-blue eyes, and smiled._

_Then his entire world exploded._

-

Something went bang downstairs, and he didn't think it was the door.

Webb jerked awake at the sound, instinctively clutching his sister close to his chest, but Inu was too hard… He looked down, and saw the bag containing the shard. He cursed and threw it under the sheets. He jumped out of bed, eyes wild, gripping his hammer tight in his hands.

He listened hard for something downstairs, but all went quiet. A few people were jogging past his door to see what the commotion was—and then they screamed. There was the sound of blade-on-flesh, and Webb knew they were being attacked.

"Fuck it fuck it _fuck it!" _he growled, and pressed his back to the side of the door. They opened inwards, so he'd be able to surprise anybody coming into the room. Sure enough, the door crashed open, hitting his forehead in the process. A gray dwarf entered the room with him buddy, and Webb was on them in an instant, driven by the wild energy that he'd possessed in his dream. He hit them both as hard as he could from behind, and only when their skulls were a flaky pulp did he stop.

He stood in the doorway, hammer ready—and when they came for him, it didn't matter how good of a fighter they were. All he knew, all he believed, was that he was going to make up for West Harbor.

He did.

--

Ny met Webb upstairs. A pile of dueger lay at his feet, body parts crushed by his powerful hammer swings. There was no other commotion upstairs except for her rapid intake of breath. "Is that all of them?" she asked. Khelgar trailed behind her, battle-ax in hand. He took a look at the dead bodies and laughed—actually _laughed. _It was the last thing she felt like doing.

Webb nodded. He was still shirtless, the yellow paste was crusty, and he was sweating. But other than a good-sized knot on his forehead, he seemed unharmed. She couldn't say the same for herself—blood dripped from two long cuts above her eyes, another from her brow. A slice to the back—shallow—soaked her tunic in red. "You brought a fucking midget with you?" he asked, gesturing to Khelgar with his hammer, panting. "What next? A tiefling?"

"Shut your trap, Mossfield," she shot back. "Is it safe?"

"Yeah… fucking piece of crap anyway. How's downstairs?"

"Terrible. I think half of them are dead. They're putting out the fires right now." She hissed between her teeth, spinning around in a full circle to check the hallways again. "I can't believe they found us here," she muttered. "Daeghun _said_ we'd be safe!"

"And what? You're surprised he lied?" Webb snapped. The way he looked at her made her take a half-step back. "You are such a _hypocrite._"

"You're no charm yourself," she hissed. "Give me the shard." _Why is he _like_ this? He's _infuriating!

He set his jaw stubbornly, and she almost expected him to argue, but then he walked backwards and retrieved the pack from under the bedsheets. He threw it to her—she caught it, then made sure it was still in there. It was.

"Lass…" Khelgar muttered warningly. "Yer blood's dripping on the floor."

She glared at Webb for another second before glancing down. "Guess it is," she muttered. She pushed past Webb and into the bedroom. "Get out," she commanded.

"It's _my_ room," Webb argued.

"And it's _my_ body I don't want you looking at. _Out."_

"_No._"

"Oh, so you _want_ to see my boobs?" she asked acidly. "Are you actually interested in an elf after all?" And, because she couldn't help but adding, "I bet your dad would agree, too."

His face turned an interesting crimson color. Without another word, he stalked past the open door and slammed it behind her, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She took off her shirt, wincing in pain as she did so. She looked in front of the mirror as she worked, holding the shard in her boot as she worked to help speed up the healing process. It was a good thing she was flexible, or else she would've had to ask Webb or Khelgar for assistance.

Her hands were shaking in anger as she did the bandaging—Webb was no freaking different from West Harbor. Always the same, so loudmouthed and stupid and _frustrating! _She would almost relish a fight with him… a hypocrite? She was _not_ a hypocrite, no matter what type of twisted dimension he thought he was in.

Had Daeghun lied to her? Really, truly lied to her? Did he just set her off to go so that they could capture the shard so they wouldn't think there was any others? The thought was sickening… yet she could see him doing that. He didn't _love _her, he thought she was a waste of space… She wiped a few angry tears off of her face, trembling.

She wiped the blood off of her face with the sheets, and then held the shard to her forehead for two minutes so it'd clot. Then she threw it back into the bag, wiped the rest of the blood off again, and stared at herself in the mirror.

The face that stared back wasn't the same as it had been a week ago. Blood crusted on her neck, bags underneath wild, feral eyes… "Yeah, well it'll be over soon," she whispered. _Maybe I won't even go back to West Harbor… maybe once, to give Daeghun the news, then I'd take Bev with me, we'd go join the Greycloaks…_

But they had to finish their task first… and _that _would take all of her time and energy.

She prayed to Lathander for a safe passage, then left the room with the pack sung over her shoulder, where it would stay, hopefully, until Neverwinter.

They helped pile the dead bodies outside to bury the next day, then slept downstairs. Webb wouldn't talk to her or Khelgar, so since she felt he'd be traveling with her for a while she went ahead and told him the whole story. She was officially deemed a fighting magnet, and he promised to stay with her 'till Neverwinter. He liked his fights, he did.

He'd be sure to get some.


	8. Journey to the Crags

**Chapter 8**

"_Now that I think back on it… I don't think I was old enough. That I was ready." __**;**_** Sabrae Telcho**

**--**

**Thirty-six years PSI – The Crags (foothills)**

The Crags were the largest mountain chain on the Sword Coast, and the tallest. They seemed to stretch on forever, touching the ceiling of the sky and disappearing through the thick clouds. Trees steadily climbed the rocky mountains, a forest that seemed to stretch on forever to Sabrae. And it was there, at the foothills of the mountains, that she would begin her training.

The ride from Neverwinter to The Crags (she thought this particular mountain was called High Peak, but she could be wrong) was a long one that stretched three days. They rode on Faerwin, a beast called a Pirrani which Fuller said was a shapeshifting gift from Lifestream, their god. Faerwin was an intelligent creature, and after her initial fear she'd taken a liking to him and fed him her scraps when Fuller wasn't looking.

One the first day they rode without break, but though it seemed fast to Sabrae, Fuller was actually taking it slow. When they stopped to eat, he'd offered to teach her a few things. Excited, Sabrae had accepted.

He'd set down his meal and moved away from the small campfire, towards a small tributary. "I want you," he said, "to push me into the water."

A little taken aback, and realizing it had to be a trick somehow, she moved around him hesitantly. Suddenly, he seemed bigger and badder than before—the spirits around him suddenly spoke up, louder than before, and she struggled to block them out. _He won't hurt me, he won't hurt me,_ she recited to herself, over and over. Over by the campfire, Engel watched,

She ran full tilt at him, hands held out to push him, gathering what little strength she had in her limbs—and then something hit her hard in the head and she fell backwards, dazed. She landed on her back, on a pile of rocks, and groaned.

"Never let an enemy know you're coming," Fuller said, reaching out a hand to help her up. "Be creative."

She took his hand and was pulled to her feet. Using her momentum, she rammed her head into his rock-hard stomach, pushing hard with her legs. He fell back slightly, and laughed—she could feel it through her skull. He reached down and delicately pushed her away. "Close, but I was expecting that. Always do the unexpected."

On the second day he taught her how to form a fist and kick for the most power. He had her practice the same kick over and over until she wanted to scream with exhaustion, then made her run what he called 'suicides.' Then, so she could rest, he made her put her back to a tree and squat with her hands held out in front of her. At first she thought it was a pretty fun exercise until her legs began to tremble with the effort of holding herself up. She collapsed on the ground, and then he carried her to the campfire so she could really, truly rest.

She rested her head on the ground and pet Engel. Her face was red and puffs of air came out of her chest in an unsyncopated rhythm. "Do we always have to do that?" she asked finally.

He was somewhere in front of her, cooking fish for lunch. "Every morning," he said. "It's my job to get you conditioned—you'll still be a bit weaker than the others, but a lot stronger than most seven-year-olds your age." He paused, then added, "You did very well. You didn't complain."

"I don't want to go back home," she said by means of an explanation. "What will the others do if I complain?"

"Send you home," Fuller answered promptly.

She closed her eyes, willing the lump in her throat to disappear. _Every day,_ she thought brokenly. Her legs burned and her chest ached—how could she do that every day?

He must've seen the look on her face because he said, "You know you can do this. It's all in your head."

"But what if I can't?" her voice was barely a whisper.

"Try your best anyway," he advised. "The Masters there respect willpower even more than strength."

So he told her about the two Masters that worked there, the basic command structure. She wasn't anything yet, he said. But once she graduated training, she'd be apprenticed to another Master to roam the field. Then she'd be promoted to a Nighthawk if Lifestream willed it, and then if she roved herself to be one of the bests of the best, she would attain the rank of Master. "But that's a long way off," he said.

"What about the Prophets?"

The Prophets weren't anything like she'd been led to believe: they were telthor spirits—or something like that—who had given their lives to Lifestream. They were blessed with the ability to read the currents of the future, and each one of them was a different animal imprisoned in a cage of smoke and fire. Jesseman was the leader of the Nine, and she was a nice water-spirit. Master Fuller said he liked her the most, so she did, too. But when she asked if they saw anything regarding her future, he just said that the future changes.

She learned about the current Nighthawks, what their basic roles were in society, and their tenants. And, probably most important, she learned about why there were only thirty trainees and fifteen Nighthawks.

"We don't really know why—only the Prophets do, and they haven't been willing to tell us anything… but it's always the same. Every year, I go to the Fated Caves and hear their prophecy and go get another batch of students to replace the ones that were either killed in training her decided to go home. When a group graduates to apprenticeship, there's always enough children to replace them. And then the apprentices aren't even true Nighthawks yet—they die, they leave, or they fail, and they don't get replaced.

"The Test is taken when the youngest turns eighteen. In those years, the people in the apprenticeship drops, and for some reason the numbers are always just enough to fill the positions of the dead Nighthawks."

"Can a Nighthawk leave?" she asked.

He nodded. "There's been a few who have."

"Do they have to chase them?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Like…" she found it hard to explain. "I dunno, like… are they bad people if they leave?"

Fuller frowned, and shook his head. "Contrary to rumor, we're not a bad bunch of people. For those that can't work anymore because of an injury, or have to leave… we don't go _killing_ them, oh, no."

"Why not?" she asked, confused. "Don't they know too much?"

"Of what?" he challenged.

"Of… Neverwinter things."

"That's a totally different question," he said. "It means they left because they didn't believe in Neverwinter anymore, right? That they want to destroy it?"

"Um… I guess, yeah." She fidgeted, uncomfortable with the way his eyes were fixed on her. "Is that a bad question?"

"No, it's not," he said at a length. "No question is _bad._ It's the reasons for asking. Why do you need to know?"

"My dad says that people turn against things all the time… that it's human nature, sort of." She shook her head. "I don't know."

He gave her a look she didn't recognize, but one she instantly didn't like. "Do you really want to know?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Then I want you to run five more suicides, one for each question," he said casually. "Knowledge comes at a price."

She shook her head. "Please, my legs _hurt._"

"And you've had sufficient amount of time to rest," he said. "Go on. Then go bathe—we're one day away from our destination."

And so she ran. She ran more than she ever did that day, because she was burning with questions. Her legs ached the next day, but still she ran because she _had_ to be fit enough to be in the Nighthawks. She _had_ to.

As they approached one of the cavern entrances in The Crags on the third day, Engel suddenly hissed, hair standing on end. His very essence quivered in her fingers. "What's wrong?! Are you alright?" she asked the telthor.

The telthor didn't answer, but buried his head in the crook of her arm. She looked up at Fuller, and saw that the mist around him had evaporated. Without it, he looked almost normal. "Did we just pass the ghost lights?"

He nodded. "How's the telthor?"

_I_ told _you we should never have left,_ Engel hissed, raking his hind claws into her leg. Sabrae looked in amazement when she saw his claws had ripped a hole in her pants, just around the knee area. Fuller let out a hiss through his teeth when he noticed.

"Keep him under control," he hissed. "I'm breaking a ton of rules by just letting him come in—he's our secret, okay?"

"Will the Masters throw him out?" she asked, her stomach dropping at the very thought. She couldn't—wouldn't—go through training without him.

"They'd find a way," he muttered darkly.

She gasped, and bent her head down to nuzzle Engel's back. "You hear that? Be good… you will be alright, won't you?"

_I'd rather not do that again. _He nuzzled deeper into her armpit, and she let him. Fuller saw her clothes move, and his mouth compressed into a thin line.

"Now, remember, Master Honura is strict. Don't back-talk with him," he whispered into her ear. "Ceetos is generally more lenient, but don't try him. I've taught both of them at the same time, and they are without a doubt two of the best in the entire order. No sneaking around feeding the Piranni's like you do with me."

Faerwin snorted indignantly.

She could feel her eyes widen as they descended deeper into the cave. Soon, it was completely dark except for Engel's soft glow beside her, and Fuller couldn't see it. "Mom says they hit people here if they're not good," she whispered fearfully.

"Then don't be bad," he said softly.

"Do they really?"

"Shh, be quiet," he whispered. His lips pressed into her ear, and, very quietly he said, "We're being followed. No more noises. Keep Engel close."

She swallowed, and gripped Engel as tight as she could without hurting him. They rode on silently, making no noise as they descended deeper, deeper into the cave. She could feel them going downhill, then up. There were too many twisting turns in the middle of it all, confusing her.

She wondered if she really _was _cut out to be a Nighthawk. This was _terrifying. _Suddenly, she wanted to have the chance to have said goodbye to her parents, to her brothers. She felt tears sting her eyes, and wiped them away with her free hand. _I want to go home,_ she thought desperately.

Engel wriggled out of her embrace, his body language suddenly alert. "Come back," she whispered, reaching foreword to grab him but he just walked up Faerwin's neck and took his position on her head. Then, he walked down her elongated nose very carefully, his ice-blue form suddenly glowing brighter if such a think could happen. She saw the ground beneath her, and felt her jaw open soundlessly. They walked on the thinnest possible stretch of rock, while all around them glowed bubbling, iridescent yellow-orange liquid.

"Please," Sabrae whispered. She had visions of Engel falling into the bubbling mass, and leaned foreword as far as she could, struggling to grab his tail. "Come _back._"

"Where's he at?" Fuller muttered.

"He's crawling on Faerwin's nose."

Fuller let out a sharp whistle that made her jump. "Oi! Engel! Snap out of it."

The cat's tail twitched, and, ever so slowly, he inched his way back towards her. The glow around him faded, and Sabrae hugged him close. "Why didn't you listen to me?" she muttered.

Fuller answered for him: "If the ghost lights don't get them, it's always the slosh in here. Something about it hypnotizes them."

_I liked it. The colors were very pretty._

"If I catch you sneaking out here during the night," she warned, "I'll take you through the ghost light myself."

The cat shuddered, then descended into silence. She kept a closer hold on the tabby until Fuller told her they were clear and to let the cat go. She could see torches glowing up ahead, and let Engel go. The tabby jumped off the Piranni and made a run for the torches to see. She let him, and leaned further back into Fuller. "What did the letter to my parents say?" she whispered.

He was silent for a moment. "It said," he said slowly, accenting every word, "that you decided to come with me, and that it would be easier to leave without a goodbye. I said you loved them, and that you'd be back in four weeks."

"I thought it was every weekend!" she said, outraged.

"You still need to catch up. I've taken extended leave to teach you on those days. Otherwise, it would have been longer than that." He paused. "Listen, cry later, in your quarters, okay? You need to make a good impression. There will be a lot of tears before your training is over."

She nodded and took a deep, shaky breath. She _did_ want to cry—she missed her home, her family, her friends… But she had to be strong. And Master Fuller was a nice guy, and he knew what he was talking about. So she took his advice to heart and cleared her eyes of tears. "Good girl," Fuller whispered.

As they approached the torchlight, she saw now that the rocky caverns gave way to smooth, carved walls. "The runes were of a dwarvish clan that lived here once," he muttered. "They moved on before I was born."

"What are the Master's names again?" she asked, slightly panicky. "I can't remember."

"Honura is the human. Ceetor is the water genasi," he said patiently.

"What's a genasi look like?" she whispered.

"You'll know when you see him," he assured her.

And so they trotted ahead… towards the Masters, and if one wanted to be dramatic, her destiny.


End file.
